A Fox Hunt
by The Desert Stallion
Summary: Hogan's Heroes have a new mission. It's a mission that could change the world's destiny. Costarring Erwin Rommel, aka the Desert Fox. Updated, at last! Pigs are flying past my window!
1. Prologue

July1, 1942 Late afternoon, Operation Crusader, near Alexandria, Egypt

German Field Marshal Erwin Rommel watched Mueller cringe as yet another shell embedded itself in the desert floor. His young aide was struggling to hide his fear of the British bombardment, but it showed in his wild eyes. The field marshal smiled half-heartedly and turned back to his chief of staff, General Bayerlein, who was grinning without sympathy.

"First time under fire!" the older general had shout to be heard over the explosions. He motioned at the nervous young aristocrat.

"He's doing better than most!" Rommel called back. He pointed anxiously to the radio. "Is there any word on the 15th Panzer Division? Where they are, how they fare, what they're doing? I lost contact with the general when I last tried to reach him!"

"Last I heard, they were pushing the British back a ways outside Alexandria," Bayerlein clarified, his expression troubled. "But that was two hours ago! And these men are holding their line well enough, but the British artillery is hurting us like crazy! If this keeps going, there won't be anything left of Battle Group Kiel!"

"I know, I know, let me think!" Rommel wracked his overloaded brain for a solution, thought of his air support. _Where is it, and what is Auchinleck doing? _"The Luftwaffe! What have you heard from them? I ordered them to support our attack in force."

"They never responded, as far as I know, Herr Feldmarshall," Bayerlein shared his commander's fears, and pushed the panic down roughly. "Perhaps the message was intercepted."

"Hardly," came the scoffing reply. "I've sent the same message five times." Rommel was frustrated now, and was working hard to keep his temper. Another shell exploded only a few yards away and showered them all with hard rock and gritty sand. Mueller whimpered and ducked down behind the back seat of Rommel's command vehicle. The swabian felt the ground shaking, heard the terrible whine of bullets in the air. It was, truthfully, rather exhilarating. Bayerlein tugged at his sleeve, obviously not feeling the same way about it at all.

"Sir, we should move back, withdraw from this place," he pleaded. "The fire is intensifying, and I believe the enemy is drawing closer."

"They're trying to push us back," Rommel admitted slowly. He peered upwards, and sighed. "Not a cloud in the sky above all this dust, and not a plane either. It's a wonder we don't see the jabos up there yet. We will." He turned back to Bayerlein. "This attack has to break the defense soon. We can't let ourselves be stopped, General." He hastily scratched out a note on a scrap of paper and handed it to a young messenger. "21st, immediately. I want all available, unused units moved to this front, and fast!" He fixed the soldier in his steel-blue gaze.

"Sir!" The young lieutenant snapped to attention and dashed away to a waiting armored car. It roared away, dodging shells, tanks, and men as it went.

"At least remove yourself from this unnecessary danger," Bayerlein was after him again.

"Can't. An important message is being sent here, and I can't have it chasing after me. It won't be long," Rommel assured him, somewhat hesitantly. "I hope." He glanced at his watch. 4:00 p.m.

"Perchance Kesselring will see the light now and send us more divisions," Bayerlein joked. "Now he has seen what the British have, and we haven't."

"Not likely," Rommel snapped, finally losing his temper at the thought of the optimistic Kesselring. "They delude themselves about the enemy's strength, him especially. They cannot, will not see that we are outnumbered and outgunned. Remember, Germans can never be beaten," he laughed mirthlessly.

Bayerlein agreed with him. _They have abandoned us, here in Africa, left us to fend off the enemy hordes alone. But we are still fighting. Fritz, you're in a tight spot now. _He felt deafened by the fire raining down all around; felt the men suffering, their push forwards slowing. They were all dying, sacrificing themselves for the army's sake, for Germany. He watched Rommel and saw the tight-lipped determination. _We have the Desert Fox still. If anyone can get us on top of things, he can. _Rommel was more than a respected commander; he was an admired friend as well. "Sir?" Bayerlein ventured.

Rommel turned to face him and inquired, "Ja?"

"If I don't make it through this, will you see that my family is remembered and taken care of? My wife has no other means of support for herself."

"Ja, I will," his features softened for a minute. "But you will be fine General, I know it."

Bayerlein seemed to be somewhere distant as he muttered loudly, "Krieg ohne hass – war without hate – I never thought it possible. I admire those men over there, the ones coming at us. They're smart and brave, and they have a good cause." He looked at Rommel briefly and shook his head. "Our cause, what, the extermination of Jews? And yet, because of our oath to Germany, we follow that cause without complaint, fearing for our safety if we do otherwise. We follow that cause to our deaths, and what will we gain in the end?"

"Fritz," Rommel warned, but inside he knew his chief of staff was correct. "Some here would not appreciate your words."

"Why be careful? I'm too old to be careful anymore. You're younger than me; you be careful," Bayerlein grinned weakly. "Besides, I doubt the Gestapo could weather this heat." He wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Sorry Erwin, but I get philosophical when I'm scared." There was a lull in the firing, and he listened to the soldiers around him.

Rommel waited patiently for more.

"Is our cause right, Erwin?" the older man pressed.

"It is for Germany," Rommel hedged cautiously, for the benefit of any listening, but Bayerlein snorted.

"It is for the Fuhrer," he stated boldly. "And that man can be wrong, often is. Man fails, Erwin. All of us. And it is a hard place to be. Is it right to obey the government, when the government chooses wrongly? Or do we disobey? Where is the point that it should change? Where do we say, 'enough'?"

Rommel stared at him for a moment. "I don't know, Fritz. I wish I did, then so much could be cleared up." He lowered his voice. "It is wrong, what we do to the Jews, but I am sworn to the service of Germany. I gave my word. It bothers me always, that I could be so dense not to see the solution. I would give anything to have Germany back, the old Germany, before the Fuhrer." He felt like a traitor saying it. "Before all these wars."

Bayerlein gave him a sad smile. "Don't we all?"

As if in agreement, the enemy shells began to fall heavily again. Mueller squealed suddenly and clapped his hand to his left arm. A fragment had clipped him and it was bleeding freely. Rommel tossed him a clean engine rag and Mueller wrapped it around his bicep, face pale with fear.

"All right?" the field marshal asked, his eyes scanning the desert for his messenger.

"Ja, sir, ja," the young man assured him.

"I don't think that reply's coming," Bayerlein prompted from beside Rommel. "You need to get to safety."

"No, I guess it's not," he conceded. "These men are supporting the 90th's attack; they must hold firm here. We should get down to the Light Division, and see if they're breaking through yet. Can these men hold here?" He was anxious, refusing to go to safety.

Bayerlein straightened up from where he had been leaning on Rommel's 'Mammuth,' his captured British command vehicle. "Of course they'll hold them, Herr Feldmarshall. They are part of the Afrika Corps. But I do request that you hurry some boys on out to help."

"Will do. Come on, General. Let's go give General Auchinleck a run for his money." Rommel stuck out a gloved hand, helped Bayerlein over the side. The armored car roared into the blinding, choking dust of the desert war.

_The war for Africa raged on, the advantage constantly swinging back and forth. Rommel pushed on recklessly, attacking and retreating, striking furiously and slipping away cunningly. He fought well against the superior forces of the British, but as the months passed, the victory was still undecided. Africa, (and the British) began taking a toll on the famed Afrika Corps. Men everywhere came down sick with jaundice, sores, wounds, and dysentery. She even wore out the Desert Fox, and would finally send him home on March 9, 1943, exhausted and disillusioned, but still a national hero and a formidable foe. The Afrika Corps, however, was fighting a losing battle; between the British and the newly arrived Americans, it didn't stand a chance. Germany lost her grip on Africa forever in 1943, to the joy of the Free world. _


	2. A Confusing Code

March 5, 1943 Late evening, Stalag 13, Germany

"Colonel," Sergeant Kinch quietly knocked on his commander's door. "Got a message from London." He was a patient man, and waited silently for the door to open. Peter Newkirk, the shifty-eyed, nimble-fingered Englishman, stayed curled up in his bed, seemingly asleep. The brilliant, but sometimes slow Sergeant Andrew Carter threw down his cards on the table and moved closer. Louis Lebeau, a very small, passionate, and feisty Frenchman, stopped stirring his soup to listen in. Half a dozen others were in the room, and they gathered at a respectful distance. Colonel Hogan, Kinch, Newkirk, Carter, and Lebeau were the main operatives in their underground business. They did most of the work, carried out the more dangerous missions. Subsequently, the other men in the camp had dubbed them Hogan's Heroes.

"Colonel Hogan," Kinch knocked a little louder, and finally their suave, raven-haired leader appeared, rubbing the weariness from his bleary eyes.

"What?" he asked, yawning. "Can't a guy get any sleep? I had a long day with the Underground, and I'm just beat." He scratched his head and moved lethargically towards the table, sank into the chair with a tired sigh.

"Funny," Carter said, completely clueless. "But Lisa said the same thing this morning, when I met her out setting charges." It was then that he spotted the smudged lipstick on Hogan's face, and blushed furiously. "Oh, **I **get it… How come you get to have all the fun?"

"Cause I'm the officer," Hogan was waking up quickly, wiped the makeup from his cheek.

"Oh…"

"Mon Colonel," Lebeau plunked his cooking pot down on the table and leaned into the conversation. He sent Hogan a bright and mischievous smile. "Request permission to perform the next mission with the Underground."

"Me too," Carter grinned. A snort floated up from the Englishman's bunk.

"Denied." Hogan said it flatly, then smiled to show he wasn't displeased. "Newkirk gets to make the next rounds, remember?" They had been drawing straws of late to see who got each assignment. Lebeau and Carter were disappointed, but Kinch waved the paper in his hand.

"The message, Colonel?" He quietly prompted his friend.

"Oh yeah. What's London got to say this week?"

"They sent us a newly coded script. I can't make it out, it's kinda kooky…" He handed the notebook to Hogan, who read it once, twice, and frowned.

"Listen here, fellas," he told his men. "Ahem, it says here, 'Dear Papa Bear, it's hard to capture the beauty of this day here in Europe, perfect for fox-hunting. The sun is shining as brightly here as in the desert, but not as hot. Hope you chaps are enjoying yourselves. Your mutual friend, Big Brother. P.S. I shot a lion on my last trip to Afrika." Hogan knew the others were stumped. He tossed the pad on the table and sat back in his chair. "Well…"

Newkirk now made no attempt to act asleep, rolled out of bed. He joined the other Heroes at the table. "What's that supposed to mean, guv'nor?"

"They said we could have unfriendly ears on our line, thus the different code," Kinch explained. "London has good cause to believe there's a rat in the works."

"They're gonna have to set a trap," Hogan stood and paced across the room. "I'm no good at riddles." His men watched silently.

"Ya get better with practice, Colonel," Carter finally encouraged. "I used to be terrible at chemistry, and now look." He beamed proudly at the others, until Newkirk poked him in the arm. "Hey! That hurts!"

"A bruised arm; yer lucky you didn't lose it on that last experiment. One of these days, yer gonna blow us all up." Newkirk looked pleadingly at Hogan. " 'E really will, guv'nor. I felt that explosion a hundred feet away, above ground." Carter scowled at him.

"Trial and error, it might work for chemistry, but not in this job," Kinch agreed. "We don't have time to make an error, of any magnitude."

"Right." The senior prisoner of war eyed the code as if it were an enemy soldier he'd like to shoot. "We'll try to decode it. We can't take too long. If we don't get it, we'll radio Mama Bear and get the message from her, rats or no rats. Gonna have to take that chance." Hogan hugged himself tightly. "Concentrate on this, boys." He returned to his seat.

They all sat in gloomy silence.

"Does this mean the Friday night Jitterbug Dance is canceled?" Carter asked sadly. If looks could kill, he would have expected an electric chair for Christmas.


	3. Some Light Shed, Some Plans Made

March 11, 1943, Early morning, Stalag 13, Germany

Six days had passed, and they were still no closer to breaking the code. Hogan believed it to be either absurdly hard, or absurdly simple; the thing was, he couldn't tell. _It's starting to really get on my nerves,_ he thought, sipping at the strange coffee in his mug. _Someone's been using the wrong coffee maker. Again. _He instantly thought of a suspect – Lebeau. _Kinch is going to be upset with him. I'm tempted to let them have at each other. This tastes terrible. _He set the cup down and pushed it away from him, determined to sneak it someplace other than his mouth. He heard Carter snickering at his expression. _To business. _They were gathered in the small radio room, almost ready to give up.

"Kinch, radio Mama Bear and ask them for some clarification on London's latest message," he rubbed his sore neck as he spoke to the solemn black sergeant. The others looked at him in surprise; they hadn't expected him to give in yet. He rebutted their looks defensively. "Look, we've waited several days and we're still no closer to figuring this out. Maybe we're already past the deadline."

Newkirk grinned from where he lounged against a support beam. "It's a bloody good code if yer own men don't get it."

"Wi," Lebeau added, sounding confused. "Why doesn't London just say what it means?"

"That's politics," Carter was happy to explain the methods of government. "Well hey, back at home, there was this politician running for governor. He'd say one thing one day and the opposite the next. In fact, ya know-"

"Carter, we don't need a history lesson, we need a ruddy code," Newkirk smirked. "They can't tell us, 'cause someone's on our line, likely enough." Hurt, Carter fell into a sullen silence. Newkirk knew it wouldn't last long. _Take the chance and run with it. _

Hogan did. "Let's gather the facts, what we know. We're supposed to kidnap someone, someone fairly big. Who?" Kinch shrugged, turning back to his radio, but Carter pulled on his sleeve.

"Um, Kinch, while you're at it, will you ask how we're doing in Africa? I've got a buddy down there and I'm kinda worried about him."

"Look Carter, it's almost roll call. I haven't got much time-" Kinch started to say, but Hogan cut him off with a sheepish laugh.

"That's it!" he exclaimed. "How could I be so dumb?" Everyone stared at him as he laughed again. "Cancel that call Kinch, we've got it figured. Think fellas. London bagged a **lion.** Lions live in Africa. Now, what do fox hunters hunt?"

Carter's forehead scrunched in heavy thought. "Oh, um, foxes!"

"Give the man a prize," Newkirk patted Carter on the back. "So now what?"

Kinch's eyes widened with understanding. "Foxes in Africa… Africa's a desert."

"And Africa is spelled with a 'k' in the message. For a minute, I thought they were getting sloppy," Hogan grinned. "Go on."

"A fox in a desert, a desert fox…" The others finally got it as well.

"**The **Desert Fox, Erwin Rommel," Hogan's statement left his men robbed of their words. "We gotta capture him."

"Mon Colonel, that's impossible," Lebeau was sputtering. "He's in Africa."

"Wrong. He's here in Germany on sick leave. A little coffee pot told us, and a blabbermouth Klink. I was listening in a few days ago and heard that, but I was too dense to put it all together." Hogan moved to the ladder and began climbing up to the barracks. "And as luck would have it," he helped Lebeau out, then Newkirk, Carter, and Kinch. "he's coming through the area on his way to Berlin. London knew that, so do we now." He smacked the bed, the boards smoothly falling into place.

"Better than that, Colonel," Kinch said softly. "Klink offered him the hospitality of this camp; he accepted it for three nights. He told Klink he has business in Hammelburg." Hogan whistled long and low.

"So that's why the guards are cleanin' up," the Englishman chuckled. "What a bit 'o brass will do."

"How did Klink ever snare him?" the Colonel was curious.

"One, he's never met Klink. Two, the stay is free of charge-"

"Sounds nice," Lebeau commented wistfully.

"What, the free-of-charge stay?"

"No, never meeting Klink." The Frenchman wrinkled his nose in distaste.

Kinch grinned and continued. "Three, Hitler himself ordered Rommel to stay in a safe place. And four, I gathered he was curious about Germany's prison camps." He waited, the report delivered.

"Well," Hogan was pensively watching them. "We'll give him a tour he won't soon forget." He turned to leave the barracks.

"How, sir?" Carter asked the fatal question for everyone.

He was flashed a triumphant grin. "Details, Carter, mere details."

March 12

The next day proved bright and clear and cold. March in Germany could get a little crisp, and the prisoners rubbed themselves vigorously to keep warm. They were waiting patiently for roll call to end, heckling the guards, chattering amongst their friends. Sergeant Schultz, the tubby, amiable sergeant of the guard, waddled down the line counting out loud. His flabby face sagged with relief when he found every prisoner was present. They were even all the same from yesterday. He stopped beside Hogan, rubbing his big hands together.

"Colonel Hogan, I am ver-r-r-r-y happy to see all your men here," he lowered his voice and shook his huge head. "Very big brass today. We have to be perfect, **perfect!** Bigshot's orders." He rolled his eyes at the thin figure of Colonel Klink, who stood shivering on the front porch of his headquarters. Klink suddenly marched down the steps and strode towards them, riding crop under his elbow, monocle carefully in place. He swung to an abrupt halt in front of Hogan and glared at Schultz.

"Repo-o-o-o-rt!"

Schultz quickly saluted. "Herr Kommandant," he stammered. "All of the prisoners are present and a-**count**-ed for, I am pleased to say-"

"You wouldn't be pleased if they weren't, Schultz," Klink huffed. His eyes fell on Hogan. "Very good then. I'm not surprised, Hogan. After all," he waved his index finger through the air. "No one ever escapes from Stalag 13." He stepped back and looked out over the rows of prisoners. "Friends, and enemies (he chuckled at his wit), it is no secret that we have an important visitor today. In accordance, I want every man on his best behavior." He gave them a steely glare. "Dismissed!"

Hogan sprang after the retreating Klink, fell into step beside him. In a nonchalant manner, he asked, "So, is this fella staying for lunch, Kommandant?"

"Three 'lunches' actually," Klink confirmed before thinking. "Why?" He stopped and angrily eyed his senior prisoner of war, who was looking far too innocent. "Ho-o-o-gan, if you're planning something, I'm going to-"

Hogan raised his hands in surrender. "Calm down, Kommandant, I'm not trying anything."

"Good. Now if you'll-"

"Lebeau is, but if you don't want to listen, sir, I'll be on my way." He turned and started to leave, like a masterful manipulator. Klink fell for the bait again.

"Wait one minute, Hogan. What is that little cockroach doing?"

Acting reluctant to spread the news, Hogan looked both ways and leaned in. "Well, you know the Frenchmen. Flighty, emotional little chefs. Lebeau's just homesick for his kitchen, that's all. See you later, sir." He was held in place by Klink. "Something wrong?"

"Homesick? He wouldn't try escaping, would he?" Klink's blue eyes were wide open. _Bingo, he's in the bag. _"No one ever escapes from this camp, never?" It ended up as a pleading question.

"Kitchen desperate Frenchmen aren't no one sir," Hogan lowered his voice in a conspiratory manner. "They'll try anything, do everything, wipe out anyone in their way. Take my advice, Kommandant. Never come between a Frenchman and his _cordon bleu_. Those chef knives can be murder."

Klink flinched. "What am I going to do? I know, I'll double the guards."

A theatrical sigh. _That could have won an Oscar._ "If only there was a kitchen nearby, full of little French goodies. That would stay the volcano." Hogan pulled free of Klink's grasp. "Sorry sir. Enjoy your escape-free record while you can. I've got to go find a replacement for my cook."

"Hogan, I thought of something. Perhaps if the Frenchman were allowed to cook for me and my guests… Would that stop him from doing something rash?"

"It just might sir, but he might not want to cook for Germans, no offense. I could order him to, if only there was some motivation." He thoughtfully regarded the Luftwaffe colonel, who was getting desperate.

"Two extra slices of bread for a month?" Klink started the bantering with a good bargain, but the American knew what he wanted.

"Five extra slices for two months." He saw Klink grimace. The German was incredulous.

"What!"

"But since you're such a tough Kommandant and will never agree to that, I'll give you a good deal. Allow me to come for supper tonight, and you win every way." There was a dangerous twinkle in Hogan's eyes.

"How's that?" Klink was instantly suspicious.

"You get to save on bread, you get the Frenchman to cook for you, Lebeau doesn't escape, and with me at the party, your guest will never lack answers to his questions about prison life." The Allied POW was enjoying himself immensely.

"How do you say it- what's in it for you?"

"I get a good meal, and Lebeau gets to cook. No one gets hurt escaping. It's perfect."

"It might just work… All right then Hogan, we're agreed. Seven 'o clock sharp, tonight." He narrowed his eyes. "Don't try anything foolish."

"You're a great man, sir, a great magnanimous man." Hogan threw him an extremely sloppy salute and sauntered back to his men.

"I agree with that too," Klink called after him. It took him a minute, but he was soon wondering where on earth Hogan had learned that the Desert Fox was interested in Stalag 13. _Oh well, does it matter? _He strode stiffly back towards his office. It was going to be a beautiful day and he didn't intend to let Hogan ruin it for him. If he could impress Field Marshal Rommel, a promotion could be forthcoming. **_General_** _Klink might not be too far away. _Perhaps he would even break out his best schnapps. _Yes, I believe I will. _


	4. Arrival of the Quarry

March 12, 1943, Midday, on a road between Hammelburg and Stalag 13

Erwin Rommel leaned into the plush back seat of his brand new Horch armored car, reveling for a moment in the pleasant coolness of Germany's climate. He ran a gloved hand over the soft leather and marveled anew at home's creature comforts. He would never again take such things for granted, not after Africa. _I do wonder what is to become of me, _he watched the green fields flowing by. _Will I be shelved, or given a new command? The problem is, nothing is left to stop the enemy with, not since the air raids have intensified. _Here and there he could see evidence of the Allied bombings, hollow shells of buildings, piles of rubble strewn on their foundations. It was a sad, lonely sight; only an occasional citizen was up and about, staring silently after his car. _We are losing the war on both fronts. It's only a matter of time… The British must get here before the Russians, but we are stubbornly, foolishly resisting them. _

He absently toyed with his peaked cap as he was driven further into Germany. Rommel had been ordered by Hitler to find a safe area to stay while he conducted business in Hammelburg. What place was safer from Allied bombs than a prisoner of war camp? To be sure, this Stalag 13 was a long drive from Hammelburg, but he had never minded lengthy road trips. He had never toured a German POW camp either. _It might be interesting. _

He straightened up and tapped the driver's shoulder. "Daniel, do you recall the name of Stalag 13's commander? It left me…"

The young man peered in his rearview mirror, met Rommel's inquisitive gaze. "Ja, Herr Feldmarshall, I believe it was… it was, uh, Flink-no-Klink. Colonel Wilhelm Klink is his name. He is with the Luftwaffe; Stalag 13 is a camp for Allied airmen."

"I see," Rommel's mind began to wander back to the front lines, back to Africa and his doomed Afrika Corps. Daniel watched him through the mirror with guarded concern. He had met the field marshal only recently, but he already felt protective of the convalescing Desert Fox. He thought of a way to distract Rommel from his troublesome ponderings; he would bring up every fact he could remember about the prison camp, which incidentally, wasn't much information.

"Did you know, Herr Feldmarshall, that Stalag 13 claims to never have had an escape?"

"Ja?" Rommel, ever perceptive, was amused. He knew what the young corporal was trying to do, and he appreciated it.

"Ja. They call this Klink the 'Iron Colonel.' He is a subordinate of General Burkhalter's."

Rommel frowned at that. The lean, stocky swabian detested the grossly overweight Burkhalter. He reminded him too much of the fat, foppish Goering. _They certainly eat well in Berlin, while my men in Africa struggle to survive. I wish the Fuhrer would let me go back. _He would never, Rommel knew, and so resigned himself to remain where Hitler would place him. _Maybe Italy. That would be enjoyable for a change. _He remembered one Italian in particular, a Major Bonachelli, a man with a mortal weakness for pizza. "General Burkhalter is in Berlin, correct?" He directed his question at the half-asleep Major Lang, who was blissfully slumped beside him.

"Wha- oh yes sir, he's in Berlin this week."

"Good." He wouldn't have to put up with the man's ceaseless chattering and boasting. "Major Lang?"

"Yes, Herr Feldmarshall?" The major was fully awake now.

"Keep an ear open for that overfed blimp. I don't want any surprise visits from him. He drives me crazy with his ridiculous propaganda, and I'm not sure I could take that well this week."

Lang grinned broadly. "You will have fair warning, sir."

"You are invaluable, Major," as Rommel turned back to watch the countryside, he could hear Lang chuckling into his scarf. The afternoon sun radiated its warmth through the windows of the car, almost forcing him to relax in spite of himself. The cheerful sunlight reminded him of his friend and former chief of staff. Bayerlein was now a Panzer commander in Russia, fighting the Russians and General Mud. Although uneager to go, and beset with uncertainty, the older man had accepted his new command on the Eastern Front without complaint. _For your safety, your family's safety,_ he recalled Bayerlein's revealing words. Rommel understood that; his concern for Lucie and Manfred multiplied every day. Between Allied bombardments and Gestapo investigations, Germany wasn't safe for anyone anymore, not even a field marshal's family.

His sharp eyes caught sight of a weathered, wooden sign as it flashed by the car. STALAG 13 2 KILOMETERS They were almost at their destination. He took the time to smooth his hair, replace his cap, and slip on the brown leather overcoat. Although pleasantly cool in the vehicle, outside it was much too cold for his still-acclimating tastes. It had been a surprisingly warm March in Africa.

Major Lang also attempted to straighten himself up, muffling tired yawns as he did so. All he wanted today was a good bed for the night. Even off-duty, Rommel drove himself and his aides at an exhausting pace. He saw Corporal Daniel grinning at his disheveled state and glowered at the younger man. _Enjoy your youth while you can, Corporal. He'll wear even you out eventually. _

Daniel put on the brakes as he located the camp's entrance, a rough gravel road edged with evergreens and thick brush. A tall guardhouse stood by the main road, intimidating only until one realized it was vacant. Rommel sighed out loud at that. The first impressions of the camp left him wondering at its competency level, if one existed at all.

Daniel, having stopped the car beside the guardhouse, drove the car further down the gravel road. He didn't think much of the camp either and cautiously watched their surroundings. "We shall have to keep an open mind," he muttered. "But I don't see how. Escape free and no guards in the guardhouses?"

They turned a sharp right angle and finally saw the whole operation. It stretched several hundred feet in both directions, a tall fence of barbed wire and wood frame. The main gate was in the center. Rommel observed only one guard tower, but was gratified to see a guard within it, lazily eying the camp. Two more Germans were loitering by the front gate, laughing and talking. Rows of long, low buildings formed the majority of what he could see. Prison barracks, Rommel guessed.

Daniel pulled up to the gate and clambered out to speak with the guards. "I am Corporal Leighstat, driver for Feldmarshall Rommel. We were invited here by your Colonel Klink. Will you inform him of our arrival?"

Jahwohl, Herr Corporal," one private saluted nervously and scurried away; his companion hurried to a red and white striped shed to open the electronic gate. It swung inwards with a piercing squeak; Lang squelched a snort of derisive laughter.

"Open minds, Major," Rommel repeated as Daniel returned to the car. They pulled in through the gate and maneuvered up to the one building that flew Germany's Swastika. "We must meet this Colonel Klink before we pass judgment. Until then, open minds."

Open minds proved easier said than done. Rommel slid carefully from the backseat out into the cold atmosphere, and was promptly greeted with an unsettling sight. Standing a few feet away was a sergeant almost the size of Burhalter and Goering combined. The man came to attention the instant he spotted the Field Marshal. Rommel felt Lang move up beside him protectively, giving the guard a highly skeptical look.

"I am Major Lang, Sergeant. This is Feldmarshall Erwin Rommel. Where is Colonel Klink?" His tone was faintly demanding and impatient, Rommel guessed that he was tired and feeling irritable.

"Herr Major, I-I-I am sure he is coming! Karl is getting him right now!" The sergeant was still saluting, so Rommel raised his own hand and forced himself to smile. The man was obviously friendly, because he smiled back, a little uncertainly. _Is he relieved, or what? Does he think all officers would like to bite his head off?_

"What is your name, soldier?" He spoke for the first time since they had arrived. Other than his weight, the man had no other resemblance to the fat Generals of Berlin. In fact, he rather liked the big, goofy grin.

"Sergeant Schultz, Herr Feldmarshall!"

"Well Sergeant, you have an interesting camp here. I am surprised to see so few guards. I take it your Kommandant runs a tighter ship than most…" he looked around curiously.

Schultz was curious too, about Rommel. Most field marshals thought it below them to speak with an enlisted man. "Ja, a very tight ship." Like Klink, he thought it best to agree with his superiors. It made less sparks fly. For once, he found himself wishing for Klink's presence. He had no idea what to do with a friendly field marshal, and the major was still shooting suspicious glances in his direction.

"Sir," Daniel warned. "The Kommandant…"

Rommel waited patiently as Wilhelm Klink descended the steps. Klink was the direct opposite of his superior, tall and thin, with wide blue eyes and a transparent face. He carried a riding crop and a monocle. _He must be one of the high-class Prussian officers. Wonder if he has the arrogance to go with his appearance? _

Klink came to a jerky stop. Major Lang stepped in front of him and threw out his arm. "Heil Hitler!" he barked. Rommel struggled to keep a straight face. His new aide enjoyed attempting to intimidate other officers, even superiors. In a way, it was a test of the victim's character.

Klink recoiled nervously and put out his own arm. "Heil Hitler!" It was almost a whimper; Lang glanced pointedly at Rommel and stepped back.

"Colonel Klink, this is Feldmarshall Erwin Rommel," Daniel intoned. "We are here by your considerate invitation."

"Ja," Rommel agreed, extending his hand. "It was kind of you to offer the hospitality of this, fine, camp." Klink gave him a tentative handshake, plainly unused to such civility. "These men are part of my staff. Corporal Leighstat, and Major Lang. We do not intend to inconvenience you or interrupt your business."

"Oh no no no no, Herr Feldmarshall, no inconvenience at all," Klink gushed. "It is, in fact, a great honor to have you here." He whirled on Schultz and cried, "Show Corpral Leighstat to the guest quarters and help him with the bags!" He turned to Rommel and Lang. "Gentlemen, would you care to join me for a little, refreshment?" He rubbed his hands together.

"Certainly."

HHHHHHHHHH


	5. Surprise, Surprise

March 12, 1943, Afternoon, Barracks in Stalag 13, Germany

Hogan straightened up and slid the faucet handles back into position while the others crowded around him. They were all practically bursting with their questions, but their leader only held up his hand for silence. "Well, they made it. All three of them."

Lebeau wondered at that, expressed his surprise. "Three? Only three? What are they doing, Mon Colonel? Why are there so few of them?" The boys repeated his questions eagerly; for a minute the din was deafening. Hogan covered his ears in exasperation until they quieted.

"Better. Now calm down, everyone. From what I could see, the field marshal and a major went with Klink into his office. I think Schultz is helping a corporal with the bags." Hogan moved to his room, men trailing out behind like the tail of a comet. "We've got three days to pick a plan of action, and it's gotta work. London made it plain, this job's important, so let's get thinking." He pulled open a drawer and passed out cigars that had originally belonged to Klink. They all stood in silence, contentedly puffing away. Carter suddenly leaned forwards.

"Honestly, sir, how are we gonna capture a field marshal?" Carter asked. "I mean, yeah, we've done it before, but this is Rommel we're talking about. He's one of Hitler's best, if not the best general that Ol' Scramble Brains has. If he disappears, they'll tear apart this entire side of Germany, and interrogate a lot of innocent people. It could get hairy really fast."

" 'E's got a point, guv'nor," Newkirk was also unsure. "This isn't some no-name Kraut. Three of 'em, hah. They've probably got this whole bloody camp surrounded right now."

"So he's got to disappear somewhere else, fine. London sent us orders; we've got to do our best," Hogan argued stubbornly. "Anyone got any ideas?"

"We could drug him and ship him out through the tunnel," Lebeau offered. "I am going to be cooking for them tonight."

Then they'd come and take this camp apart, find our tunnels, and it'd be curtains for us," Kinch disagreed. "London doesn't want us endangering this camp's operation."

We could jump him outside camp, on the way to Hammelburg," Hogan mused, then dumped the idea. "Thus putting pressure on the Underground that we just don't need. Who knows what the Gestapo might do to them?" Unbidden, the thought of Tiger entered his mind.

"I know," Carter exclaimed. "One of us could impersonate him while we're shipping him to London. Kinda like that time I imitated Adolf-"

"Blimey, Carter," the Englishman shook his head sadly. "Use yer head another way an' think. None of us 'ere look a thing like Rommel. Ruddy impossible. Lebeau's too short, an' the rest of us are too tall or fat. An' that's not even including facial features. No, ruddy impossible."

"I'm afraid Newkirk's right," Hogan said firmly. "We're gonna have to find another way."

Olsen suddenly poked his head in the door. "Schultz is coming!" he hissed.

"Thanks, buddy," Hogan herded his men back out of his room into the main barracks. Carter, Kinch, and Newkirk sat down to a game of poker; Lebeau climbed into bed and feigned sleep. Hogan went to the door and opened it to let the guard in, who instantly spotted the cigar in the American's hand. His eyes widened with longing and his mind remained on the cigar as he spoke to Hogan.

"I am here to make a surprise inspection. Colonel Klink wants nothing to go wrong today, and that includes no monkey business…Mmmm…" He caught a whiff of the cigar's fragrant scent.

"What do you mean, no monkey business, Schultzie?" Newkirk asked. "Don't you trust us anymore?" He blew a smoke ring in the German's direction.

"You're the enemy," he replied haughtily. "Why should I trust you?"

"Can you trust yer friends, other Krauts?"

He thought about it. "No…"

"There you are, Schultz, now I promise we'll behave." Hogan assured him, but Schultz only snorted.

"See? I know I can't trust you, because you never behave," he moved over to the bunks, feeling for dust, something he would never have normally done. However, Klink was in a highly agitated state today, so he was determined to leave no bed unturned. As he inspected the barracks, he gloated. "Did you know a big shot asked who I was? That hasn't happened since my friend was here." He wandered from bed to bed. "Maybe I'll get another medal."

"Yeah, first class this time, for knowing yer own name," Newkirk teased.

Hogan was starting to get fed up with the interruption. There was only one sure way to rid them of Schultz; tell the truth. "We gotta kidnap Rommel, big guy. Why don't you go play guard somewhere else? Let us do some planning." He passed the cigar back and forth in front of the tubby German.

"Jolly jokers," Schultz laughed. "There's no way…" He stopped abruptly. "There is way. Colonel Hogan, ple-e-e-ase! Tell me you're joking!"

"All right, we're joking." Hogan kept waving the cigar.

"Oh good," Schultz was relieved. "Danke, Colonel Hogan."

"No problem, Schultz. Before you go, do you happen to know where we can find some rope?"

"Barracks three, it's been storage for a… long… time…" He trailed off as he realized what Hogan wanted. "Oh no, you're joking! I don't know what you asked! I know nothing, **nothing**!" He shook his head vigorously, jowls flapping, and fled the room, but not before snatching the cigar that dangled under his nose. They watched him leave and then regrouped.

Carter moved up beside Hogan and asked, "So, sir, what do we do now? We're fresh out of ideas."

"Not quite, Carter. When in doubt, never forget the enemy. Sometimes they have great ideas. Will you gentlemen excuse me?" Hogan sauntered into the bright outdoors. "I'm off to meet our favorite field marshal." He knew without looking that his men were giving each other confused, resigned glances. _Ideas from the enemy? I believe they think I've flipped. But really, sometimes the Germans give me the best ideas, and why not? There's nothing to lose. _He was in no hurry to reach Klink's office, which gave Schultz plenty of time to see where he was going. He waddled up on the porch and placed his bulk in front of the door.

"No prisoners allowed **out** of the barracks," he demanded. "You can't come in here."

"Who's gonna stop me?" Hogan laughed. "You?"

"Why me? Please, Colonel Hogan. I have my orders, so be a nice fellow and go back to your barracks. I have a three day pass coming up, you know."

"Oh yeah. Hey, is that a cigar?"

Schultz was terribly confused. "You should know, you just gave it to me…"

Hogan feigned horror. "Schultz, you couldn't have, fraternizing with the prisoners? Don't worry, I won't tell anyone, unless, of course, I can't get in to see the Kommandant." Once again he was surprised at the big man's speed. "Why thank you, Schultz. Very kind of you." He turned to go inside.

"Colonel Hogan!" Schultz was getting red in the face.

"Yes?" he paused, waited for the guard to rethink his actions.

"Nothing."

He chuckled, stepped into the secretary's room. Hilda smiled cheerfully at him and motioned to the closed door of Klink's office. He blew her a kiss, glided over, and walked in. Klink froze at his desk, a drink of schnapps halfway to his open mouth. He set it down and leapt to his feet. "Hogan, how many times must I tell you to knock first!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir, were you busy? Ah, visitors! How fun!"

Erwin Rommel stood with his back to the window, watching the unfolding drama with amusement, though his face betrayed nothing of what he was thinking. Hogan met his cool gaze with a bright, innocent smile. Klink was ready to explode with anger, but Hogan only walked boldly up to Rommel and saluted smartly. The Kommandant's jaw dropped. _He's never saluted **me** like that, or General Burkhalter, either._

"Good afternoon, sir. I'm Colonel Robert Hogan, Senior Prisoner of War here at Stalag 13." Hogan was taller than Rommel and much larger, but the German didn't seem intimidated by his close presence. He eyed Hogan for a long moment, and then returned the salute just as smartly.

"I am Feldmarshall Rommel," his English was heavily accented, but understandable. He turned to Klink and inquired, "So, your prisoners have the run of the camp?"

"Oh no, Herr Feldmarshall," Klink gasped. "I don't know what's gotten into Colonel Hogan." He shook his finger in Hogan's face, who only grinned back. _That insufferable smirk; I'll wipe it off his face. Thirty days in the cooler for ruining the beginning of my week. I should have known. _"This will not go unpunished!"

"Ja, it will," Rommel was also beginning to grin.

"Of course, of course, no punishment. Hogan, what do you want?"

"I just couldn't wait until supper to meet the famous Desert Fox," Hogan tried to look innocent. He addressed Rommel. "Really sir, you seem to be the only one on your side with any real skill. Too bad you're not on our side." Something in Rommel's expression changed.

Ho-o-o-gan!" Klink was furious.

"Herr Colonel, did I hear correctly to assume this Hogan will be joining us for dinner" Rommel turned his piercing gaze on the squirming Klink.

"Yes, well you see, it's a little reward for some information he gave me yesterday," Klink was getting nervous. "If you don't want-"

"On the contrary, I would enjoy the presence of an unbiased mind, for a change." He studied Hogan carefully, and for a rare minute, Hogan felt uncomfortable under German scrutiny. "You know, Colonel Hogan, you look enough like my new-" He was cut off by the arrival of Major Lang.

"Sir, I've got the-" He too stopped speaking as the prisoner turned around lazily. Hogan was shocked and rendered speechless. For all practical purposes, he was staring into a mirror.


	6. New and Different Plans

"He what!" Lebeau tossed his cards on the table and pushed his chair back. Hogan stood by his office, leaning casually on the door frame.

"He looks like me, or I look like him," he shook his head, patiently explaining again. "Whatever way you look at it, we look alike."

"Blimey! That's a mouthful, an earful, and a mindful," Newkirk stretched in his chair. "Are you thinkin' this is our big chance, guv'nor? It's the perfect coincidence." He pocketed another dollar from Olsen.

"It is," Hogan admitted. "And it could be the perfect switch, too. If I became Major Lang, maybe, just maybe we could pull off our mission. Maybe…" He chuckled. "It's kinda odd seeing yourself on the other side."

"It would depend quite a bit on whether or not Rommel's known Lang for a long time," Kinch thought out loud. "If they're good friends, it would be harder to impersonate the real Lang. On the other hand, if he's new on the job, like you said, it might work."

"And if I waited until we were out of the area, the pressure would be off the Underground," Hogan started pacing. "Our operation would be safe from investigation."

"It would be very dangerous too," Lebeau cautioned, still not sold on the idea. "What if you were found out? You'd be shot, as a spy."

"Well, it **is **a war, after all. There's gotta be a little danger." He was getting excited. "But we could do it. A pinch of hair dye, some pictures…" He snapped his fingers. "Lebeau, tonight I want you to slip the major a few sleeping pills, got it?"

"Oui, Mon Colonel," the Frenchman saluted smartly. "It will be done."

"Newkirk, you'll be our impromptu waiter-"

"Sir, I've always been very good at ad libbing."

"Good, well, I want you to swipe his wallet at dinner. There should be photos of his family in there, some personal information. Kinch, can you have a camera ready around midnight?"

"Sure thing, Colonel. There's even an old tunnel that goes to the guest quarters. You want me to take some shots of him?"

"Yeah, I think he might have pointier ears. I'll have Carter whip up a batch of putty… By the way, where is Carter?" Hogan peered around the room, saw no sign of the young chemist. "Doesn't he know all prisoners are confined to the barracks? That crazy kid."

"I think he was looking for his comb a while ago. He said he may have left it outside during roll call." Lebeau rolled his eyes and searched the grounds from the window. "When will Carter ever learn to think? How can the smartest people be so dumb? Oops, there he is. Krieger's got him by the arm." He sighed loudly. "Oh no."

"What?" the others all looked out, and groaned.

"He's taking him to the cooler."

"Klink wasn't kidding," Kinch muttered.

"Neither am I," Hogan was determined. "Carter's in trouble, all right, but he's just earned himself a pass to Berlin. He'll be in the cooler for what, thirty days?"

"The usual punishment."

"Right. That gives us plenty of time to do our stuff. An extra guard from Berlin will be joining us."

"A few chocolate bars and some friendly advice will keep Schultz knowing nothing," Kinch agreed. They stood gathered around the window, planning their suddenly very real mission.

"One question," Olsen finally broke the silence. "What'll we do when Colonel Hogan disappears? Klink will notice that."

"Questions, always the questions with you guys," Hogan threw his hands up in exasperation. "That's our problem, Olsen. Maybe Lang would fill in for me, but I doubt it. You can always say I escaped."

Later evening

The night sky was extraordinarily clear, only a few small clouds, and Hogan could see every constellation over Germany. He paused for a minute in the center of the prison yard, contentedly staring up at Orion. He always felt good when he had a plan; tonight he felt wonderful. _It feels like I've reached for the stars and almost caught one. If this goes as planned, what will this do for the war? With Rommel out of the action, the German High Command has lost their element of surprise. The other generals we can predict with decent accuracy, with maybe Guderian for an exception. But we never know what the Desert Fox might try. Guess that's why he's called a fox, a wildcard. It's also why we have to succeed. Remove the wildcard, and the enemy's been dealt a lame deal. _Hogan could see figures moving in Klink's office, setting the table, pouring the drinks, turning on the lights. He spotted Schultz at the window and waved.

"A perfect bomber's moon tonight, isn't it?"

Hogan jerked around, startled at the sudden appearance of his quarry. He groped for a reply. "Um, yes, I suppose. Were you Luftwaffe once, sir?" He tried to casually fold his arms across his chest, seemed perfectly collected. He spied Lang hovering several feet away.

"No, but I have studied that aspect of war," Rommel glanced up at the stars as well. "I am surprised not to hear your planes overhead tonight, Hogan. If I were in their place, I'd be up there right now."

"We do have a pretty tight schedule, got a lot of places to bomb. I think Berlin was scheduled for tonight, actually."

Rommel laughed. "You Americans, always cracking jokes, even as prisoners. You're a light-hearted people, but you can be serious too." He watched Hogan, eyes glittering in the semidarkness, and started walking towards Klink's office. "I have to give your people credit, Hogan. Your men in Africa, they were green to begin with. After I beat them once though, they kept coming back. And your supplies, your weaponry, absolutely amazing. Some Germans don't think so, but I do. () If I had half of what they had…" he trailed off. "It might have ended differently."

"I'm pretty happy with the outcome myself," Hogan offered.

"You would be," Rommel shrugged indifferently. "But the war is not over yet, Hogan. My duty is to keep you Allies away from Germany. I have not given up."

"I'm sure you'll do what you can, sir. After all, you Germans are pretty stubborn."

"Ja? Well, we all have our faults," he glided up the steps.

"Even supermen?" Hogan asked sarcastically.

"Especially supermen." There was a bitter note in Rommel's words.

Hogan was left to wonder at that statement, for they had arrived at the party. Major Lang moved past them and opened the door to reveal an exuberant Klink. He cheerfully hung Rommel's trench coat on a peg and led them to the table. He ignored the unexpected Newkirk, who looked resplendent, but uncomfortable, in his red coat. _So it begins,_ Hogan slowly sat down. _I wonder how it ends._

"Some Germans don't think so, but I do." In my research on Rommel, I found this kind of interesting dialogue between Rommel and Goering. It was during a last ditch attempt by Rommel to convince Berlin that he needed more men in Africa in order to fight the newly arrived Americans.

An except from some World War II book. I can't remember the name. This isn't mine, so nobody can sue me.

"Rommel got the red carpet at the Wolf's Lair, where all hands were optimistic. Hermann Goering told Rommel that the Luftwaffe ruled the Egyptian air. Rommel didn't bother to argue the point, but mentioned the heavy American aid to the British 8th Army.

"Quite impossible!" Goering said. "Nothing but rumors! All the Americans can make are razor blades and refrigerators!"

To which **Rommel** replied, "We could use some of those razor blades.' "


	7. Lay Off the Schnapps, Will Ya?

Hogan wasn't surprised to see Hilda already seated at Klink's table. The Kommandant had placed her beside Rommel, hoping to win a few points with his secretary's pretty face. Rommel acknowledged her with a nod and a smile, but he didn't remain focused on her long. Klink sat at the end, waved Hogan and Lang into their seats across from Hilda and the field marshal. Hogan exchanged wary looks with his impeccable twin. He saw that Lang looked more uncomfortable than he himself felt. The POW took a closer look at the German's glass of schnapps. It was ever so slightly different from the other drinks; a milky white substance was slowly settling to the bottom. Satisfied, Hogan straightened up and winked at Newkirk.

The door to the kitchen flew open and Lebeau emerged, rolling out a small cart packed with delicious smelling foods. He bustled around the table, cheerfully humming as he slid the platters into their places. Klink grinned broadly at the slab of chicken on his plate, inhaled deeply.

"You know, this feels just like Paris," he told the group. "All we're missing is the music and the sunshine." He noticed the little round blobs beside the chicken, speared one and held it up. He looked at it doubtfully. It was slimy and rolled in some green plant. "What is this?"

Lebeau glanced over his shoulder. "Ah, that is a wonderful delicacy of ours, Monsieur. It is called, Escargot."

Rommel coughed discreetly and carefully replaced one of his own back to its plate. Hogan followed suit, then Hilda, and finally Lang. However, Klink remained oblivious and popped one into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment and then swallowed. "You know, that's very good," he praised, reaching for another. "What are they made of?"

"Snails, Monsieur," Lebeau kept a straight face.

"Wha-" He turned several shades of blue, brought his napkin up to his mouth. Klink then reached for the nearest glass he could find, which accidentally became Lang's. Before Hogan could stop him, he had drained the whole glass in desperation. The unfortunate German then flew into a fit of coughing. Lang raised an arrogant eyebrow questioningly as his drink was finally returned to him, empty. Through watering eyes, Klink glared at Lebeau. "Snails! And I thought the French were civilized. Bring Major Lang some more schnapps, quickly." The Frenchman retreated into the small kitchen, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

_How could he drink Lang's schnapps? _Hogan was indignant. _This isn't starting on the right foot. Unfair! _He forced himself to become calm again. They had more than one chance tonight. It was still early. Newkirk appeared at the table bearing a second drink in his hand, but as he set it down, his fingers caught it and knocked it over. The dark brown liquid splattered all over the front of Lang's uniform. Lang pushed his chair back with an angry German oath. Hogan almost frowned at Newkirk, and then stopped himself. If he knew Newkirk, this was his big chance.

Acting surprised and embarrassed, Newkirk apologized profusely. "Beg yer pardon, guv'nor, I'm sorry. Here, let me help you." He pulled an extra towel from his arm and proceeded to brush him off, hands deftly cleaning. _Among other things._ He winked back at Hogan, stepped away from the quietly fuming Lang. "Really am sorry, sir. Didn't mean to ruin such a fine outfit. I'll get you another drink."

"Not you," Lang sighed. "Have the short one bring it out. I've already had a shower." Klink burst into untimely laughter at his sarcasm, received a chilling look in reply. His laughter died as quickly as it had come.

Lebeau brought out a third drink and the dinner party moved on without further disaster. Colonel Klink regaled them with his tales of Stalag 13, embellishing the more dangerous moments. His guests sat politely through it all. Having heard nearly every story before, Hogan would jump in with some witty comment that provoked laughter from everyone except his Kommandant. As the time passed, Klink began to slur his words together. Lang was blinking like an owl struggling to stay awake in the daytime. Newkirk kept his glass filled to the brim, occasionally slipped in another pill. _Now things are going better,_ Hogan was pleased with their work. He checked his watch- 9:00 P.M. _Those sleeping pills are already starting to take effect. I'd better figure some way to end this party, before Klink and Lang fall asleep on the table._

"And my last trip to Paris was terrible," Klink yawned. His eyes were fighting to stay open. "Excuse me, but I feel so tired. Anyway, I couldn't even get into an officer's club." Hilda shook her head in sympathy.

"A pity, Herr Kommandant. Those clubs are highly exclusive…"

"Excluding an officer from an officer's club?" Hogan grinned brightly. "That is pretty exclusive. But then, the Bald Eagle has always been an exception to the rules." He noticed Lang nodding off, gave him a firm nudge. _Not yet. _The German jerked back awake and smiled sheepishly.

"_Iron _Eagle, Hogan," Klink ground out between his teeth. "_Iron._"

"Yes, well, I never much cared for those clubs myself," Rommel spoke up. He hadn't talked much that evening at dinner; something was obviously weighing on his mind. "A lot of questionable behavior goes on in them. Besides, all that drinking loosens a man's tongue. We caught many spies and informants at clubs in several African cities."

Klink looked duly impressed, tried out his flattery skills. "It is amazing, what you've done in Africa. It only proves the superiority of the German forces-"

"If we were able to meet on even terms," Rommel interrupted, a small flash of some unreadable expression shooting through his eyes. "But some would not have it that way. And because of those certain high-ranking few, we're getting nowhere with this war. We're even falling behind, if you dare to think about it."

"Which he doesn't. Our Kommandant is a loyal German soldier," Hogan piped in. "He wouldn't dare think that Germany might be losing the war." Newkirk cut a finger across his throat, but Hogan ignored him pointedly. Lebeau buried his face in his hands. Hilda held her breath anxiously.

"Hogan, I think I can speak for myse-" Klink was gritting his teeth now, but he was no longer the object of Rommel's attention.

"And are you implying I'm not?" Rommel was starting heat up. He sent the American a fiery look that would have intimidated most men into silence. Hogan was not like most men.

"No, but most Germans are afraid to think for themselves nowadays, what with Hitler breathing down their backs. And Bormann, and Himmler…"

"I'm not afraid to think for myself," Rommel scowled. "I can see what's happening easily enough; yet I'm loyal through and through. I might stand up against those others you mentioned, but I don't disobey my fuhrer. I'll admit, we've made mistakes, some big ones; we're no worse than you. What the fuhrer does is for the good of Germany."

Something made him say it. "You don't really believe that, do you? That's just some line you've been forced to memorize. You're a lot worse off than us. What about your concentration camps?"

Time froze. Rommel stared angrily at him, finally answered. "Rumors are all I've heard. Could all be the product of your country's propaganda." He didn't sound sure of himself one bit. "We'll see."

Hilda stared nervously back and forth between them. Lang had dropped quietly off to sleep in his chair. "Um, I believe it is time for me to retire, Mein Herren," she rose gracefully from the table and moved to the door. As she gathered up her scarf, the men, except Lang, rose as well, Klink swaying unsteadily. Rommel and Hogan kept glaring at each other. Hilda was glad Hogan hadn't been punished yet. It was still likely though, the way they were still fighting the battle with their eyes. _Be careful, my dear Colonel. You're not fighting Klink anymore._

"Goodnight then, Frauline," Rommel kissed her hand. "It was lovely having you here."

"Yesh, yesh," Klink slurred, half-asleep. "Lovely. Goodnight everyone." He looked back at the table, spotted Lang still there. "Cockroach, you and the Englishman help our guest back to his quarters, at once. Goodnight, Herr Feldmarshall. Hogan will be severely punished for his thoughtless words."

"No," Rommel growled softly. "He speaks what he believes is the truth. Honesty will not be punished. I admire him for that, at least. Let it be. We only have to prove him wrong. And we will." He stepped past Hogan, regarded him almost warily, and left for the guest quarters.

Lebeau and Newkirk slipped out after him, bearing the awkward load of the unconscious major. Klink watched them go with bleary eyes. "What a night, Colonel Hogan, what a night." Hogan left without answering, and for once, Klink forgot to reprimand him. He was **so** tired.

**Readers might think I'm placing Rommel in a favorable light. After research, I kinda am. Gasp! He wasn't really Nazi, as most Nazis go. Churchill himself thought of Rommel as chivalrous and no normal Nazi. He was a soldier, purely so and absolutely unpolitical. He fought his battles by the rules. He refused to let his son join the S.S. Still, he fought for an evil man, and fought loyally. Kinda unfortunate. What if he'd been on the Allied side? He'd probably been a smash hit everywhere. Well, he wasn't, so that's that. Still, I'm having fun writing about him slowly discovering the truth. It's on that historically premature knowledge that I'm turning the ball of my alternate history. Hope you folks are enjoying the tale. Review if you'd like. **

**Sorry for the long time, no update. Real life has been hectic.**


	8. Off to a Good Start

The prison camp spotlight lazily browsed over the barracks, completely missing the three dark shadows that glided across the yard. They crept up the steps of the guest quarters and huddled together in the crisp night air. Covering their backs several yards away, the little Frenchman waited patiently for his friends. He stood rubbing his arms and shifting from foot to foot. If the others were discovered, it was his job to create a diversion. Most likely, it wouldn't be needed; it was only a precaution.

Up on the porch, Newkirk was goading the lock into opening with a long strip of wire. Kinch crouched beside him, holding a small camera and silently urging the Englishman to hurry. Hogan stood over them both, watching Stalag 13 for signs of trouble. None seemed to be forthcoming. Kinch grimaced-a flash of white teeth in his dark face-when the lock stubbornly groaned and resisted. The sound seemed to amplify across the compound. Even Lebeau winced.

"Quiet down there," Hogan was barely audible. "Come on, Newkirk. What's taking so long?"

"It's a might bit trickier than I was thinkin', guv'nor," Newkirk hissed back. He was annoyed with himself and his words came out a little sharper than he intended. He shrugged an apology and turned back to the door. "They've changed the locks recently, I'd guess."

"Well, do your worst," Kinch encouraged. "And do it faster." So far they'd been very lucky, but who knew how long their luck might hold? _Luck, fate, fortune, whatever it is, it's also very fickle. _Kinch realized that. "Schultz might come by any minute. Hurry."

Newkirk suddenly stopped and grinned. Although they couldn't see him well, he looked like a man drowning in the scent of his girlfriend's perfume. "Did you 'ear that, mates?" All annoyance was gone.

"What?" They stared at him, suddenly fearing the arrival of a guard, until they saw the gleam in his eyes.

"That little 'click' sound. 'Tis music to me ears." Newkirk gently nudged the door open. "I've still got that magic touch." Kinch reached back and pulled him inside. Hogan followed them, closed the door silently behind him.

Not a minute too soon, Lebeau sighed with relief as he spotted Schultz coming around to the front of the building, his rifle on his shoulder. The tubby guard glanced curiously at the door, then shook his head and kept going. It wasn't his business. After all, he was only a guard, a guard with no desire to get mixed up in anything remotely strange or different. Lebeau suppressed chuckles as he watched the German pick up his pace and disappear around the corner. He hoped the others weren't finding trouble.

Hogan flicked on his flashlight and swept the dull beam across the room. The object of their pursuit was lying on the couch, on his back, arms and legs sprawled everywhere, mouth open in a drugged snore. "Right where you left him," Hogan told Newkirk. "He'll be out cold for hours. Let's get to work." He handed the flashlight to Newkirk and moved towards the bedroom door, navigating the furniture by memory.

Sudden movement on the floor startled him. He saw a reflection of the moon on the shiny surface of a spotless jackboot. He leaned closer; the boot was attached to a leg, and the leg belonged to the German corporal. Hogan had almost stepped squarely on his stomach.

He backpedaled instantly and made a wide berth around the sleeping form. _That was…close, shall we say? _He sidled up against the bedroom door, pressed his right ear to the wood.

Newkirk had glided over to the couch and gently rolled Lang into a sitting position. He pushed his mouth closed, then held the light on his face. After stumbling over a chair, Kinch arrived with his camera. He raised the tiny rectangle to his eye and snapped the first picture.

Click.

The corporal abruptly shifted his position on the floor and sighed. Everyone froze. The German's hand brushed up against Hogan's shoe. The American gritted his teeth and held his breath. At least there was no sound from the bedroom. _Not yet._

Two more side profiles were taken; each time the corporal almost woke up with the odd noises. They were done. Newkirk cautiously let Lang sag back over the couch. There was no protest from the oblivious major, but the couch let out a soft squeal. The corporal flopped over on his chest, his hand finally withdrawing. _A blessing in disguise. We needed one._

They regrouped in the center of the room. "Got' em all?" Hogan whispered, and received almost invisible nods. "Let's go." He led the way to the door, cracked it open, and promptly shut it again. "Schultz," he told his puzzled men.

Lebeau groaned inside himself when he saw Schultz climb the steps and sit down on the porch, his broad back to the door and Colonel Hogan. His friends were trapped, and all because Schultz's feet probably hurt. He saw the door open again and Hogan's hand emerge. One finger pointed insistently down at the unsuspecting guard, then at Lebeau. _My diversion!_ He waved back cheerfully.

Lebeau threw open the barracks door and let out an anguished wail, followed by a stream of French. Immediately, the spotlight spun its piercing gaze on him and the alarm went off. Schultz lumbered up from the steps, hurried down to the screaming Frenchman. The minute he left the porch, Hogan, Kinch, and Newkirk fled the building. They circled the growing pandemonium and slipped back into their barracks through a side window. The siren was still screaming, almost in harmony with Lebeau, but just enough off to make Schultz hurry faster.

Schultz reached out and caught Lebeau around the arm. "Cockroach! Cockroach! What are you doing?" He was surprised when Lebeau whirled and latched onto him like a drowning man, sobbing uncontrollably. "What-? You're going to get me in trouble-Lebeau!"

The door to Klink's office flew open and the Kommandant stormed down the steps. He stumbled a little, as one boot was not completely on. "What's going on?" He cried, flustered. "An escape! Release the dogs!"

"No wait!" Hogan erupted from the barracks. "There's been no escape." He winked down at the sobbing Lebeau; he was slowly growing calmer. As his sobs grew smaller, the crowd grew larger; prisoners and guards in almost equal numbers swarmed around the dramatic performance. At the guest quarters, Rommel and the corporal were leaning against the railing, their guns drawn and expressions grim. _Quite the party._

"What is the meaning of this?" Klink pulled on his boot in vain, attempted to look dignified, as every German officer should. Contrary to plan, he cut a truly pathetic figure. "I want answers," he shook a finger at Lebeau, who sniffed loudly.

"Tell him, Lebeau," Hogan ordered with a faked yawn.

"Nightmare," Lebeau still clung to Schultz.

The big guard quickly became sympathetic. He awkwardly patted him on the shoulder. "There, there now, it's going to be all right."

"SCHULTZ!" Klink's face had gone red. "No, it isn't all right! My sleep was interrupted for- for this? A nightmare! We are not nursemaids. Back to your barracks, all of you. And if this happens again-" He huffed and stomped back to his quarters.

The crowd began to disperse as the guards herded the prisoners back to bed. Hogan glanced up to look at Rommel, but the field marshal and his corporal had disappeared without fanfare. He shrugged and moved inside to get some much needed sleep. _Mission accomplished. So far. _

Schultz helped Lebeau back. "Sometimes, it helps to talk about it." He was encouraging. "What got you so upset?"

Lebeau shuddered. "I saw Goering in a tutu."

Schultz stiffened. "Now you go too far! I heard nothing, nothing!"

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

"An interesting camp," Rommel removed his holster from his belt and tossed the gun on a chair. He shook his head in mild disbelief. "I'm not sure what to think."

"Ja, Herr Feldmarshall," Daniel kept his own gun close. "Perhaps open minds are no longer an option."

Rommel glanced over at the sleeping Lang. Something was bugging him about that, but he was too tired to think of it. "Strange that the major didn't wake up during all that fuss. I didn't think he drank that much." _Something's wrong, but what? _"He missed all the excitement."

"Ja, well," Daniel glanced over in disapproval. Like Rommel, he didn't drink, and he didn't trust those who did. "His fault."

Rommel nodded distantly and returned to the bedroom. He was too tired to bother with some paranoid unease. This was the middle of Germany; why should he worry? What could go wrong?


	9. Happy Reunions

March 13, 1943, Mid-afternoon, Hammelburg, Germany

She was dying. Everywhere he looked there were grim signs of her desperate death-struggle. What hurt him most was the fact that he could do nothing for her; he might only prolong the end at a very high cost. Even then, the fools in Berlin would never cooperate with him. _Why does the Fuhrer continue to put up with the madness of his aides and staff generals? _Himmler, Goering, Bormann- they were dragging Germany to her knees, and Hitler was letting them do it. _Could it be-maybe-the Fuhrer is part of this? _Nein. That was impossible and inconceivable.

Hitler had brought Germany to her feet again. From the post-war depression and shame, he had transformed her back to her former glory. _He gave us our pride back, the sense that we are truly a great nation, a sense of respect among our peers. I'm grateful for that. He saved Germany; surely he can't be helping with her destruction, can he? _Rommel wouldn't yet let himself believe such a thing, but the voices of opposition in his head grew louder every month. Every month that he watched his country collapsing. It was a bitter pill to swallow.

He stared down at the paper in his gloved hands. It had been crumpled and smoothed out dozens of times, creased and worn. It was an old order from Berlin, an order that had finally been disregarded, but it still depressed him every time he looked at it. Hitler himself had sent it to him, close to the end of his African campaign, at the end of El Alamein. Overpowered by the superior strength of Montgomery's forces, Rommel had been on the verge of ordering a full, but tactical retreat. His plan would have saved hundreds, thousands of the Afrika Corp, not to mention ammunition and tanks.

Then the call from Berlin had come in. To his everlasting shock, Rommel was ordered to remain in place. "…no other way than the one that leads to victory or death…" Hitler was ordering him to throw away his entire army. It was undoubtedly at that moment that the first major tremor shook his faith in his fuhrer. He still considered himself loyal, but he no longer implicitly trusted the High Command. They had done almost as much as the British in destroying his beloved Afrika Corp; he would never fully forgive them.

He had saved the order, tucked it in his briefcase. Why, he didn't really know; it only served as a reminder of his superiors' true natures. He recalled the mortifying and eye-opening conversations with Goering, a few months ago on the airman's special train. The High Command was locked in its own fantasy world, still believing the war could be won. They had labeled Rommel a defeatist and kept refusing to accept the truth. _I wish they were right. Maybe I am just a paranoid pessimist, but I don't think so. The Americans are coming over. _

"Herr Feldmarschall, we've arrived at the hotel," Daniel peered over his shoulder, interrupting his depressing musings again. "Do you want me to come in, sir?"

"Nein," Rommel waved him back into his seat. "Stay with the car. We'll only be a minute, then we'll be back." He opened the door and slid from the Horch's backseat. Major Lang followed him quietly. They entered the sleepy lobby and strode to the customer desk. A rather fat man lay draped over the desk, fast asleep. Lang cleared his throat loudly. The clerk snorted and jerked his head up, scowling until he noticed their uniforms.

"Guten tag," he greeted. A faint look of awe crossed his fleshy features. "Exuse me, but, are you Field Marshal Erwin Rommel?"

"The one and the same. I'm here on leisure though, not business."

Sharp, raptor-like teeth showed themselves in a nervous smile. "Though I dare say my hotel is run in tip-top shape, sir." Lang glanced pointedly at the small pool of saliva on his desk, and he coughed, wiped it off with his handkerchief. His light bulb smile dimmed slightly. "Eh, what can I do for you?"

"You might give me the number of the room that Frau Rommel is lodged in. That would be very helpful indeed." He waited as patiently as possible while the clerk fumbled through his massive book. Several minutes passed; the man was highly nervous. Finally, with a loud slap that echoed through the corridors, he found it.

"Here we are; Frau Rommel is currently in room 343," he looked up and smiled meekly now. Rommel thanked him and started to turn away. "Excuse me again, Herr Feldmarschall. May I have your autograph?"

_Is that all?_ He was pleasantly surprised and accepted the pen and paper. He leaned down over the counter to write, but a passing figure caught his eye. "Karl? Karl Strolin?" The man turned, a strange and almost fearful look in his wary, darting eyes. Once he found the source of the voice, he visibly lit up. They met in the center of the lobby and shook hands with enthusiasm. "My dear Strolin, what a surprise to see you here!" The doctor, also Lord Mayor of Stuttgart, was one of his oldest friends; he hadn't seen him for over a decade. "What brings you all the way out here? How's your family, your fair city?"

"As good as can be expected," the much older man stated in a low voice of gravel. "considering the circumstances. I'm here on official business to visit the Lord Mayor of Hammelburg." His bushy eyebrows wrinkled in concern. "And how is the old Desert Fox? To be frank, you don't look as well as you usually do."

Rommel laughed. "The old fox, as you call me, is feeling rather depressed about everything, (He didn't notice Strolin twitch at this admission.) considering the circumstances," he turned Strolin's words back on him with a wry twist of mouth. "Still, I'm better off than I used to be, if you can believe that."

"The circumstances," Strolin muttered. "I'm deeply sorry for what happened in Africa, my friend."

Rommel waved the comment away, then turned back to the desk and finished his autograph. He spoke over his shoulder. "It wasn't your fault, Karl. You shouldn't be sorry, of all people." He moved to the stairs. "Come up with me. Lucy will be thrilled to see you again."

"A pleasure," Strolin replied cheerfully. He kept glancing at the Swabian, silently evaluating. As they reached the first landing, he asked, "Eh, by not being my fault, whose is it?" There was a pause, the soft treading of Rommel's boots the only noise. Then they both stopped.

"What?"

"Whose fault is Africa?"

Rommel was taken aback and couldn't immediately reply. "Well, I'm afraid I don't understand what you're getting at, Karl. Remember, you're not talking with one of your politician colleagues anymore. What do you mean, 'whose fault'?"

"Forgive me. I shouldn't have said anything yet." Strolin bowed slightly. ""Now, shall we go in search of the lovely Lucy Rommel?" he smiled broadly, all hints of his strange question gone from his face. He had a stubborn gleam in his eye. Rommel looked at him twice, and then abandoned the thought of trying to understand. Strolin would eventually tell him, he was sure of that.

ooooooooooooooooooo

"Manfred, must you pace? You're making me nervous," Lucy gave up sewing one of her son's torn gloves, sagged back in the plush hotel chair. She watched the 14-year old wear a deeper track in the carpet. "Manfred?"

He turned and stopped. "I'm sorry, Mother. I can't help it, really. We haven't seen him for months and months. It's so very exciting." He flopped down on the bed, which earned him a disapproving frown.

"If you've been waiting for months, you can wait a few seconds more," she told him solemnly, and then grinned. _He's right though. It's too exciting. So long a time, and he's a field marshal now. _Her hand went to her hair, patted several stray strands down. _Grey hairs. My head looks like someone mixed the salt and pepper together. I am getting older. 48. I wonder if he's changed any. _"Why don't you work on your textbooks, math maybe?"

"Oh no," Manfred groaned. "Not that. I hate math."

"Well, don't tell that to your father," she chuckled. Her husband had a strong knack for math that Manfred had somehow missed out on. "You need to burn off some of that energy."

He reached out and pulled the book closer. "Mother, are we going with him to Berlin in a few days?"

"I don't know. I suppose if he feels it safe enough, we will."

"I hope so. I want the chance to discuss joining the Waffen S.S."

She looked up sharply. "You know how I feel about that."

"Yes, but Mother, they have the best training and equipment, the best guns, the best spots in the fighting-" he protested futilely.

"Composed of the worst men," she finished. "You can ask him."

"Danke." They sat in silence for a while, and she went back to her sewing. The glove was almost complete when she heard the unmistakable sound of boots and voices drawing near. Her heart threatened to leap up her throat. Glove forgotten, she fairly flew to the door and peered through the peephole.

There he was, right outside talking to a man in civilian clothes. Erwin **had** changed. The normally bright eyes were dulled with some dark emotion, the narrow face was exhausted looking, and she could see more than one grey hair poking out from under the cap. His uniform, the plaid scarf and the leather overcoat were still the same. Still, she barely noticed as a gloved hand reached out and knocked on the wood. W_here's the doorknob?_

"Well, Mother?" Manfred was amused. "Are you going to let him in?"

She blushed and grabbed the knob, twisting it open with force. The door swung in, revealing the three men. The civilian turned and she recognized Karl Strolin. The other officer she recognized as Erwin's new aide. Erwin bowed formally and kissed her shaking hand.

"Frau Rommel, I presume?" he asked.

"Herr Rommel?" she began to laugh. He pulled her forward into a fierce embrace. "Erwin, I'm so glad to see you," she whispered in his ear. "I've missed you something awful." She refused to let go of him. Not just yet. Behind her, Manfred let loose a short, disgruntled cough. He tried to divert the attention of Doctor Strolin and stuck out a slender hand.

"Hello, sir, how are you?"

"Just fine, Manfred. We seem to be staying in the same hotel. You'll have to let me take you all to dinner sometime."

"I heard you were made Lord Mayor of Stuttgart."

"Old news, lad. I've obviously been gone far too long."

"Yes, obviously," Lucy finally released her half-suffocated husband to greet the others. "You should have stopped by sooner." Strolin kissed her hand graciously. "Manfred positively adores you."

"Mother!" Manfred went red.

"She's right Karl," Erwin stepped up, put a hand on her shoulder. "We've missed your political sermons." He paused and gave Strolin a significant smile.

Strolin chuckled. "I'm back now, for a short time. So much has changed. Manfred is almost as tall as you are, Rommel. Of course, that's not saying much." Everyone laughed at the good-natured ribbing. "And Lucy grows more beautiful every time I see her. Watch out for the older men folk." She blushed again. Strolin could put anyone at ease. "Now, I must be off. I have business downtown. If you'll excuse me."

"Certainly," Lucy beamed at him. "Stay well, and come again."

"Yes do," Rommel added, and he meant it. Strolin raised an eyebrow; he hid his feelings well.

"I'll go with him, to the lobby at least," Manfred volunteered, and followed the mayor and Major Lang out of the room. The door shut with a muffled whoosh.

Before it was completely closed, she was in his arms again, pouring all her relief into another tight hug. "I was so worried, dear one," she said into his shoulder. "For months, there was no solid news of you at all. Some said you were winning, others losing. Some even said you'd been killed. And your letters weren't coming. It was awful," she held back a loud sniff. "But now you're here. That's all that matters."

He looked at her sheepishly. "Our friends in the desert kept me moving. I wasn't able to write often. I'm sorry that worried you, Lu. But nothing came of it," He carefully smoothed her unruly hair. "I did miss you, very much. I worried too, what with all the bombings."

"We were fine. They came close, but we never had to run for cover. It was sweet of you to worry though."

"It's what I do lately." He tilted her head up and held her gaze. "I could never bear the thought of you being hurt, or killed." His serious mood dissipated and he grinned. "You give me more gray hairs than the entire Afrika Corp does. Did," He corrected himself sadly. He felt like an elevator of emotion.

She saw clearly now how tired he really was. "Won't you sit down and rest?"

"No, actually, I'm here to take you and Manfred out to eat. Come on. We can't keep our good Corporal Daniel waiting."

**Author's notes: Longest chapter yet, certainly the longest space between updates. Sorry about that. Summer beckons and I had a bit of writer's cramp. This is more of a developmental chapter than action, but that's coming. I do have some action actually written down for later chapters. You know, it's always later chapters. Why is that? Anyway, thanks mucho much for the reviews. Keep 'em coming, eh? (Had to get that math bit in there somewhere. :) **


	10. Jumping Hurdles and Dodging Truth

March 14, 1943, Early Evening, Stalag 13, Germany

The last full day came upon them very quickly, passing by in a furious blur. Well, except for Carter; he sat in solitary confinement and counted the cracks in the walls. The others weren't highly sympathetic. It was his fault anyway. Hogan had spent the entire morning acting as the local pincushion, while being fitted for a Wehrmacht major's uniform, complete with staff markings. Newkirk did the sewing, or tailoring, as he preferred to call it. Both Lebeau and Kinch had stood back and watched. Their job, to smuggle Carter's chemicals to him in his cell, would come later this evening. Olsen was in Hammelburg, shadowing the field marshal, keeping an eye on his activities.

As for Rommel, he had spent most of the second day on social and business calls to several individuals in the area. The Lord Mayor of Hammelburg had insisted on his dropping by; the pudgy, novel-reading wife was absolutely thrilled. It wasn't every day she got to meet a real soldier, and she never let a minute go by without some such comment. He was reminded of an American saying-"Grin and bear it." Lang and Daniel hung always in the background. The German was just finishing a satisfactory evening with his family and Strolin, when several miles away the excited heroes went to work…

"Hey, Lebeau, what if Schultz doesn't let us in with all this junk?" Kinch was almost having to juggle all the pots, pans, and coils in his arms as they staggered across the compound. Correction, he staggered; Lebeau carried only a few bottles of liquid and a large steak wrapped in brown paper. He claimed the easier load since it was all his idea.

"Don't worry so much, Schultz will think he has no choice," Lebeau waved the champagne bottle. "His stomach never fails to get us through." His taller companion snickered and opened the cooler door.

Predictably, the heavy German superimposed himself over the entrance, his small eyes bright with suspicion. "What goes on here? What what what?" His gaze focused on the food in their arms. "No visitors in the cooler, Kommandant's orders."

"We're not visitors, Schultzie," Lebeau kept waving the bottle. "We're prisoners."

"Oh, well, he he, that's different-" he started to step aside, stopped again. "Wait a minute… what are you trying to do?

Kinch sighed and tried to explain. "Look, big guy, we're trying to cheer Carter up with a little cooking show. That can't hurt, can it?" He nudged the paper-wrapped steak in Lebeau's hands.

"Jolly jokers," Schultz grunted. "I said, no visitors, unless-" he reached and grabbed the champagne bottle. "-unless they share."

Lebeau gasped in exaggerated horror. "No Schultz! Don't drink that!" His warning came too late, for the guard had tilted the end up and emptied its contents before he could get the words out. Schultz handed the dry container back to the Frenchman and licked his lips.

"No alcohol in the cooler. I saved you a lot of trouble, cockroach," he said. "But after night before last I don't know why I did. Besides, that was the worst tasting wine I've ever had. You foreigners have no tastes." He soon noticed their stricken expressions, felt his own cheerfulness dropping. "What's wrong? Why are you staring like that?"

"That wasn't champagne," the American's voice was a mournful whisper. "That was nitro glycerin, explosives."

He had a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, felt very light on his feet. "I drank explosives?"

"Yep, afraid so. One bump and 4th of July comes early this year," Kinch shook his head, but he was laughing inside.

"Oh no," Schultz whimpered. "Why are you carrying explosives in a wine bottle? WHY are you carrying explosives!" His face was beginning to flush a deep shade of red.

"We didn't have any more beakers," Lebeau glared accusingly. "I wanted to make him a steak flambé, but noooo…"

Schultz was about to faint. "You've got to help me." They both stared at him.

"I know," Kinch exclaimed suddenly, making the guard jump. The German plugged his ears and waited for the explosion. "Maybe Carter can help. He used to be a chemist before the war. Maybe he can fix an anecdote for you." It was a single ray of hope in the thundercloud over Schultz's head, and he grasped it quickly.

"Ja, ja, what are we waiting for? Help me in," he swayed on his feet, moaning as they both propped him up and propelled him into the cooler. They hurried past the empty cells until they came to Carter's, where Schultz, with a trembling hand, keyed open the door. As they lurched in, Carter rose to meet them and take possession of his precious equipment. Kinch laid the guard very carefully on the cot.

Schultz kept groaning on the bed behind them while Carter worked to create the flesh-colored putty. "Why does it always happen to me? Hurry, Carter, hurry!"

The young scientist glanced at the ailing man. "Whatever happens, don't let him blow up-" Schultz let out a wail. "-I mean, throw up. If his stomach gets upset, we're in for an explosive turn of events." Another sob.

"Carter, why don't you just do your job?" Lebeau sighed in exasperation.

"You got it, boy," he stirred in the ingredients, one by one. Mere minutes later, he was done with his work. Lebeau and Kinch stuffed it under their jackets while Carter approached the ailing German. "Here ya go. This should terminate the negative effects," he handed him a glass of water. "Of course, you probably don't want to get too excited for some time, say 24 hours. Just for safety, really."

"Thank you, Carter." Tenderly, cautiously, he sat up in relief. "How can I ever repay you? For an enemy, you aren't such a bad fellow."

"Oh, I'll think of something. Good luck, fellas," he grinned at their retreating backs. "Come again sometime. It was a real blast."

ooooooooooooooooooooo

"You got it?" Hogan asked the minute they entered the barracks. He was rewarded with a handful of putty and triumphant grins. He grinned back. _One more hurdle jumped. _"What condition did you leave poor Schultz in?"

"He's just fine. A little shaken up, but fine," Kinch assured. "The power of suggestion is amazing. No German guards were harmed in the making of this putty."

"Good, very good." Hogan passed it from hand to hand, held it against the back of his arm and noticed the similar color. "I'm impressed, Carter," he said in the direction of the cooler, then turned to the others. "Newkirk's almost got the uniform done. We're barely ahead of schedule."

"That's very good, right, Mon Colonel?" Lebeau encouraged.

"It really is."

Hammelburg, Germany

"I suppose I should make something plain before you go, Rommel. About what I said yesterday." Strolin pulled the Swabian to a stop on the hotel's first landing. They had just arrived from the nicest restaurant that Strolin could find. Rommel nodded slightly and sent Lucy and Manfred on ahead to their room. He assured them he would be right up.

"All right, old friend, do tell. I can't deny I've been wondering about it."

"Tis a conversation best left going in a quieter place," Strolin cautioned. "Will you do me the honor of joining me for a quick drink in my room? It's right here handy." He motioned to the first door by the stairs. "I can better explain."

"Perhaps I should," Rommel followed him inside. Lang remained outside and gently pulled the door closed. Strolin set down his briefcase and poured the still-warm coffee into the cups. He handed one to Rommel, raised his own with a queer expression.

"To the glorious, all-powerful, and invincible Third Reich, may she never lose the confidence of her people," the glasses raised slowly in the toast. Strolin took a deep swig and sighed. "A little sarcasm never hurt anyone. Now," he pushed the cup away and got down to business. "I will explain. My question seemed rather strange, I know, but there have been rumors…" he averted his eyes.

"What rumors?" Rommel gripped his marshal's baton tighter. Somehow, before it was explained, he knew what Strolin was getting at. In a way, he didn't want to hear it. And yet, he wanted it made perfectly clear; one thing he couldn't stand was confusion. "Stop being so mysterious, Karl, and get to the point."

"Rumors that say, the defeat in Africa was helped on by the High Command, in an indirect way of course," he shot a calculating look at the younger man. "Something about some fantastic order. Only rumors though, right?" Rommel didn't answer immediately, but walked over to the room's mirror. He stared at his reflection. _How much of Germany knows about that order? Why does he have to bring this up now? I don't want to talk about it, not now, or ever. It's all one big mess, this whole war is all one big- _

"Right, Erwin?"

He gritted his teeth and sighed, loudly enough to get his point across. He would give Strolin what he wanted, but make no mistake about it, Rommel wasn't happy with the direction of the conversation. "Wrong, Karl, there was such an order. Still is." He reached in his pocket and pulled out the worn sheet, tossed it down on the table. "There you are. What of it?" Challenge rang in his voice. Just looking at it was making him angry and frustrated all over again.

Strolin coolly picked it up, read it with ponderous intensity. "…victory or death, hmmm…" he mused, peering up at him. "Quite the order our beloved Fuhrer gave you, friend. But he is, after all, one of the greatest military minds ever. Like that brilliant stop at Dunkirk to rest the troops, or more recently the move to end the war over there at Stalingrad," he smiled faintly, cruelly.

"Karl…"

"We must trust his greater judgment. It's true, what he said. He has made Germany unrecognizable."

"Karl." The words were treasonous, disloyal, and he wanted no part in them. Yet, they were true, so true, so horribly true. He had never wanted to hear lies so badly in his life. Now, when he did, the harsh truth came out. _I thought you prided yourself on telling the truth. Or are you like every one else in Germany nowadays?_

"Tell me, what do you think of this war?" Strolin leaned forward.

"It does not matter what I think," he snapped. "I do my job, that's all. Now please-let's get off this unpleasant subject, ja?"

Strolin remained fixed on him, but reluctantly agreed. "All right, Rommel. I apologize for pressing you so hard. We all do our duty. A toast to your health." He raised his glass again.

"And to yours," he was extremely relieved. _It's over, for now. _But it would be coming back, more and more as time went on. And someday, he wouldn't be able to dodge it.

**Another chapter so soon. Like I said, I had some of this stuff written quite some time back. It's a matter of moving it to the computer. Hope you like it. And the next one begins the journey to Berlin. Finally, some action coming up! **


	11. On to Berlin

March 15, 1943, Early Morning, Stalag 13, Germany

The cheerful morning was a deceptively calm front to the storm brewing just outside the razor wire fences of the camp. The excitement was steadily building in the four men who stood alongside the gravel road, three in worn Allied uniforms, and one in a snappy Axis major's tunic. Hogan felt very uncomfortable in the tight fitting boots and gloves, and the putty on his nose was itching just enough to be noticeable. Then something poked him in the side. "Ow! Hey, what are you trying to do, Newkirk?" He kept his voice as quiet as possible.

"I forgot to take out one of the pins," the Englishman held up the shiny metal as evidence, and then pocketed it. "I'd been looking for it. It's my lucky one, ya know."

"Well, thanks," he said sarcastically, tugged at the uniform. "It's just my day. I'm the luckiest pincushion in Germany. How do I look?"

If I may say so sir, done right as rain, right as rain," Newkirk gave the outfit a glowing, proud look. The others rolled their eyes.

"It's very good," Lebeau conceded. As good a copy-job as 'The Little Drummer Boy' we had."

"It's good Colonel." Kinch quietly agreed with them. He'd been quiet the whole morning, never seeming to get into the spirit of things. "I think we might just have a chance."

Hogan glanced at his watch. "After all this work, it had better. Kinch, you're sure he's coming in on the west road?"

"According to the microphone in the guest quarters, he is." They were discussing Major Lang. Yesterday, with a little help from the Heroes, Rommel had forgotten to take his latest army check to Lucy. He had intended for her to cash it in at their bank once she returned home, but Hogan's men had carefully hidden it until the right time. He had found it early this morning and sent Lang into Hammelburg, his money-conscious Swabian nature unable to let such business go unfinished. The hapless major was on his way back to Stalag 13; Kinch was sure of it. "Oh, and Carter knows the plan, unless he's managed to forget again." They all knew _that_ could happen. "Schultz is up to his ears in chocolate bars, with more promised to come if he does his job."

"Good, good," Hogan peered down the road. "Look, if you hear anything's gone wrong on this trip, I want no action, all right? No foolish rescue business, or anything to endanger this camp. We'll be far enough away that no one will suspect Stalag 13. I don't want you to do something that might make them think otherwise. Whatever you do, don't come after us."

"All right, sir," Newkirk's joking manner disappeared; Hogan meant business. "We wanna wish ya the best of luck, guv'nor."

"Get ready," Hogan changed the subject as they heard the clear sound of an engine approaching. The three raised their arms high in the air and marched out to the middle of the pavement. Hogan followed behind, his gun pointed at their backs. The long Horch staff car pulled around the bend and into view, heading back to camp. They saw surprise on the Major's face as he caught sight of the little parade. To avoid running them down, he quickly pulled the brakes.

"What is the meaning of this?" he called, suspecting nothing, his own gun tucked in its holster. "Why are you blocking this road?"

Hogan waved his empty gun at his men, and they filed complacently toward the car. "There's been an attempted escape, Major. I need transportation to get them back to camp."

"But it's only right over-" As Hogan came closer, he saw Lang's eyes widen in confusion, then recognition. _Time to act! _"Hogan! What are you-?" He was cut off when Kinch reached out, opened the door, and yanked him from his seat. With a startled yelp and a cloud of dust, the German staff officer tumbled to the ground, where a waiting Newkirk wrapped a thick handkerchief around his mouth and sat on him. Lang bucked wildly, his eyes bulging in anger; sputtering, incoherent cries floated up to their ears.

"Blimey!" Newkirk chuckled. "I feel like I'm at one of those American rodeos." He caught a shiny jackboot as it tried to nail him in the spine. "Now, none 'o that." A stream of muffled German curses was the only reply. "Touchy, that's what 'e is."

Hogan knelt down beside the struggling German, lowered his head to speak. "They say everyone has a twin somewhere in the world, Major. Unfortunately for you, I don't think you'll find this amusing." He received an angry glare. "We need a favor. As you've probably guessed, I'm taking over your job. All I want in return is your willingness to pose as me for a few days." There was a loud snort of derision, and curious, Hogan pulled the rag down.

"Are you out of your mind, American?" Lang spat out-very quietly, as he noticed the Luger hovering beside his ear. "I would never help you!"

"I was afraid of that," Hogan replied. "But see, I've got some leverage. Maybe we can make a deal. One, we can shoot you, go into camp, shoot Rommel, and all get shot ourselves. A real party, but not exactly what I had in mind."

"Go on," Lang snarled, clearly not liking the thought either.

"Or, you pose as me, I pose as you. We kidnap Rommel, and you save your skin." He held his breath.

The response was instant. "Impossible! I would _never _betray the field marshal!"

"Too bad," he sighed, started to stand. "Because if we don't get a replacement, our mission's in danger for sure. We've got our orders, but if we can't kidnap him…We're to remove him some other way." He was trusting in the man's loyalty for his leader, hoping the threat would be enough. Lang understood now, narrowed his eyes.

"You wouldn't-"

"'E would, mate," Newkirk told him cheerfully, patted his head. "There's no love lost between us."

Lang shifted his gaze back to Hogan. "If I agreed-_If_ I agreed, would you still kill him?" So he was considering! It was a chance, however small.

"Scout's honor," he ignored the puzzled expression. "We'd do everything in our power to remove him safely from Germany."

"How do I know you're not lying?"

"You don't. But what have you got to lose?"

ooooooooooooooooooo

"We sure are gonna miss ya, Colonel," Kinch shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. The others had already left with Hogan's half-unwilling double. "You'd better be careful. We need you back in one piece to keep this place in business."

"Trust me,** I **need myself back in one piece to keep **this** place in business," he stabbed a finger in his chest. "I'll be as careful as possible. You all do the same."

"Goodbye, Colonel," he extended his hand.

Hogan grasped it warmly and grinned. "Goodbye, Kinch. Keep the home fires burning. I hate to come home to a cold house." He reached for the parking brake as eased the car into motion. Just before, he rounded the corner, he glanced in the rearview mirror. Kinch stood in the middle of the road, looking more lost than he had ever seen him. _They'll be over it soon. After all, we know our duty._

oooooooooooooooooooo

What sort of a prison camp was this, Rommel wondered, tossing another pair of pants into the suitcase. Corporal Daniel had offered to pack, but he sent him instead to ready the car. They needed to be on their way. _Are all prison camps like the one Klink takes so much pride in? _As he strapped on his Luger, he mentally ticked off his notes from the last three days. The prisoners had practically the run of the camp; dinner the first night never seemed on the level; the sergeant of the guard never knew anything if something happened; Hogan always seemed to be manipulating Klink. _It's a good thing I'm not responsible for something like that. I'd rather take Africa and its supply shortages any day. One day, this is all going to blow up in Klink's face, courtesy of some general with a short fuse._ He stuffed the last sock in and placed himself firmly on the suitcase. It slowly closed under his weight and he latched it. How did Lucy ever make it fit so well?

The suitcase landed with a thud by the door, followed by his heavy briefcase. He heard a knock on the door as Major Lang poked his head in and saluted. "Are you ready, sir? The train leaves shortly, and Corporal Leighstat has the car running." His voice was higher pitched than normal, but Rommel let it pass without comment. _He must be nervous going to Berlin. _"Should I alert the train station of our arrival?"

"No, I don't think so. All that will cause is a lot of fuss and incompetence. We've made the arrangements. I'm ready." He gathered up his cap, marshal's baton, and briefcase, then glanced pointedly at the remaining luggage. "It's not heavy, Major, but I've run out of hands. Grab that, will you?" He didn't wait for an answer, knew the major would take the bag.

Outside, it was bright and cold. The sun was just beginning to rise, sending her rays dancing across the rooftops. It was all too peaceful; he could even hear a chorus of birds. The beauty of it could almost make one forget about the war, almost, but not quite. For he also saw the grim, barbed-wire fence, heard the rough voice of a guard shouting at some wayward prisoner. Somewhere in the distance, a war plane steadily droned through the sky. _And it's all our fault- _he quickly jerked his mind from its present course. Such thinking led to other thoughts he could ill afford to spend time on.

"Herr Feldmarschall," Daniel was coming around the front of the car as Lang loaded the bags. He opened the back door. "We're ready when you are, sir."

Rommel turned to a hovering Klink, who snapped to attention. "Colonel, I thank you for the use of your camp."

"No trouble at all, Herr Feldmarschall," Klink assured. "Maybe when you get to Berlin, you can put in a good word for me?"

"Colonel, I might try to remember you, but I make no guarantees. In all honesty, I feel I can neither recommend you nor denounce you, as I have nothing to compare your camp with." He saw Klink's face fall with disappointment. "Your hospitality was above adequate, however." Klink inflated again. _Yes, he's Prussian._ "Heil Hitler."

Just before Lang climbed in too, he looked to Klink and saluted, his eyes twinkling with some unexplained amusement. "Heil Hitler!" He called, throwing out his arm. "See you around, Kommandant."

It was a breach of protocol, but Klink didn't argue. The more friends the better. "Heil Hitler!" he replied as the car pulled through the gates and crunched down the gravel road. He frowned the minute it was out of sight and waved his fist in a sharp swipe. "Hospitality? Of all my character traits, he noticed my hospitality? That's going to get me promoted for sure. Ha!"

He noticed the Englishman lurking a few feet away. "Maybe you'll be promoted to head tea server of Berchtesgardens," Newkirk snickered. Klink huffed and turned on his heel. _Too much of Hogan is rubbing off on his men. _

ooooooooooooooooooooo

Hogan rode in silence, felt every bump and dip in the ragged German road. He proceeded to study the countryside, with an occasional side look at Rommel and his driver. Daniel was listening to the radio, his face an expressionless mask as he soaked in Goebbal's propaganda. Rommel's head was down, his mind buried in the papers from his briefcase. Hogan squirmed on his seat, glanced behind them, saw no sign of Carter or his motorcycle.

"Calm yourself, Major Lang," Rommel commented distantly, his eyes still focused on his papers. He had sensed Hogan's edginess. "Berlin isn't so bad. Besides, most of the wolves there are toothless when it comes to you and me." He finally looked up, smiling. "All I want you to do on this trip is to keep pulling me out of arguments with Himmler and Goering. We tend to collide on several, eh, issues." Up in the front seat, Daniel snorted.

"Yes sir." Hogan lowered his voice. _Come on Carter. Another 15 minutes and we're at the station. Anytime now. _Miracle of miracles, he could hear an engine in the distance, and forced himself not to look.

Daniel did look behind them, and gasped. He slammed his foot on the pedal and the car surged forward, throwing Hogan and Rommel back.

"What on earth!" Rommel winced as his head was jerked against the window. He braced himself and turned to look as well. Hogan saw his expression darken. "A fighter," he pronounced with deadly calm, turned back around. "The map! There's a turnoff coming up soon, a lesser road," he told Daniel. "Let's try to make it."

"Yes sir! I thought enemy fighters couldn't make it this far in. Bombers maybe, but not fighters!" Daniel had the pedal on the floor.

"Tell that to the British," Rommel replied tightly.

"That's not British," Hogan said without thinking. Rommel gave him an odd look. He hadn't known Lang knew about the different planes. "Looks more like French resistance." The plane was getting closer, a long, thin fighter painted sky gray with no markings. It had obviously spotted them and even now was changing its course. Hogan found himself praying a desperate plea, _Please not now, not now. Let him miss. Please let us get away. _It felt strange to wish for a Frenchman's failure, but Hogan had different plans. They roared down the road, literally taking flight over the larger bumps. 70, 75, 80 mph. Hogan begged the car to go faster. He gripped the door with white fingers and glanced behind again.

Three more specks had appeared behind the first plane, but they were Luftwaffe, pursuers of the French plane. The smaller resistance fighter seemed to waver with uncertainty, but it stayed after them, getting closer and closer. The Luftwaffe were firing; they could hear the distant, sporadic chatter of their guns over the noisy engines. The Allied plane held its own fire, determined to make its shots count. Hogan was impressed in spite of the situation.

Daniel struggled to control the bucking vehicle as it flew down the gravel and asphalt lane. He could see the turnoff just ahead. But finally, the Frenchman opened up his own guns. Bullets sprayed the road right behind them, kicking up sharp puffs of dust. They all instinctively ducked. _This could be it, _Hogan thought. Ironic that he might die by Allied hands.

**Author's notes: Well, there we go. Are Hogan and his German buddies going to make it? Another long chapter, and what do you think? Finally, some action. **


	12. Aroused Suspicions

They were at the turnoff! Daniel braked hard and jerked the wheel to the right. Gravel and dust covered the car as it fishtailed and almost overturned. The Frenchman's bullets cut into the road behind them, several slapping themselves into the bumper with frightening speed. Then the fighter was buzzing past them, unable to turn so sharply. It finally fled the scene, hotly pursued by the three Luftwaffe pilots.

Hogan stared at the retreating blips in the sky as Daniel pulled the staff car to a stop. He could hardly believe it was over so quickly, that such heart-stopping fear could be so quickly replaced by an eerie calm. For once, in the battle between ground and sky, he'd experienced the hunted feeling to the full. Hogan was suddenly very thirsty.

Rommel fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face off. Dust had poured in through a cracked window, and they were all a uniform, dusty gray. "We made it again," he dryly stated; some had gotten into his lungs. "They're always too slow for us."

"Right." Hogan brushed himself off with an air that came as close as he could to impersonating Lang's tidy habits. Daniel restarted the car and backed it out onto the main road. They had only just begun to drive on when Hogan heard another engine; he looked immediately this time, was relieved to see a motorcycle carrying good old, harmless Carter. The young sergeant pulled alongside and motioned for them to stop. When Daniel did, Carter hopped off the bike and hurried to Hogan's window, his face creased with worry.

"Excuse me, but I am looking for Feldmarschall Rommel," he asked politely in German, which had definitely improved with time and practice. "Do you know where he might be?"

"I am he," Rommel leaned forward in curiosity, waited for an explanation.

"Heil Hitler!" Carter saluted. "Sergeant Cartmeiyer, reporting for duty," he dug in his pocket for the 'orders,' handed them over with an out-of-place smile. "I have been ordered by the Gestapo of this area, to provide safe escort in the absence of Corporal-" he craned his neck to read the name. "-Leighstat." Rommel was going to Berlin by train, while Daniel drove the slower car there. They would meet again in the capital.

Hogan read the papers over Rommel's shoulder. _Signed, Major Hochstetter? Really guys, you should have used a bigger name. _Rommel evidently thought the same, because he looked up at Carter pensively.

"Major Hochstetter?" he questioned. "I must be drawing a blank. I don't remember any Hochstetter. I was told to expect an escort from a Colonel Volger."

"I do, sir," Hogan volunteered to bail out Carter. "He is one of Volger's subordinates, a security man. Very thorough-seeming." He hated complimenting the Gestapo major, but this was only an act.

"I don't remember him," Rommel turned to Carter. "Orders are orders. Very well, Sergeant, you may follow us in your motorcycle until we reach the station."

"We'll talk with you later," Hogan confirmed, his words carrying more meaning than Rommel could have guessed.

"Sure thing-I mean-yes sir." Carter ran back to his vehicle, and they continued on toward their destination.

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

The huge locomotive was already there, a long black train quickly emptying of its passengers. Most swarmed down the steps into the waiting arms of their family and friends. Others slipped quietly through the white steam, casting furtive, fearful glances around them. The station was packed everywhere, even on the stairs, with civilians, soldiers, and Gestapo agents. Train officials scurried to and fro, readying the massive iron beast for her trip back to Berlin. Children cried over the roar of the crowd; the scene could be described as bustling at best, but from Rommel's viewpoint, it was chaotic. Perhaps he should have announced his arrival.

He stood at the base of the stairs peering up into the hectic crowds. He watched as Major Lang attempted to push his way to the front of the line at the top of the landing. He made it halfway up before being stopped by traffic. The only ones moving freely were the Gestapo agents; everyone avoided them like the plague.

Daniel stood just behind Rommel, holding the suitcase. As they waited for the arrangements to be made, he found himself wishing the Field Marshal had chosen an easier way to the train, as befitting his rank, but Rommel never did anything expected. Daniel was being jostled mercilessly as he stood there, a lowly corporal with a bag. It seemed some officers took personal delight in shoving their weight around. _I wonder what the definition of officer is,_ he wondered absently as yet another major stepped on his toes. _Rude, troublesome beast in the military. Handle with care. _With the exception of his field marshal and a select few others, his description fit perfectly. He side-stepped the next hard boot, was able to see it coming.

Rommel was better off than his driver. Most officers noticed the rank on his collar or the marshal's baton in his hand. They would snap to attention and give him a wide berth, or ask if they could help. The civilians didn't notice him as much; only a few took the time to look at him. When they did, he felt like a famous race horse on display. He could hear their whispers. "Is that Rommel…That can't be Rommel…He's in Africa fighting the Allies…That's not him…Yes it is…" Thankfully, most just pushed by, their heads down, determined to break through.

To Daniel's everlasting relief, a large group of officers, what looked like the greeting party, saw them and started to approach, ordering the mass of people away. The fat one in the lead introduced himself as Colonel Volger, and apologized for the lack of preparation, a silent sub-current of disapproval for his lack of notice.

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

Hogan also saw the large group of Gestapo and Wehrmacht officers beginning to surround the Field Marshal, and turned to Carter. "Well, there's the welcoming party. Where do you suppose we go to secure a spot on the train?"

"Try that booth up there," Carter pointed to one of the ticket counters where a beautiful young attendant sat directing the flood of people. They pushed their way over to the counter and smiled brightly at her.

"How many?" she stared at them blankly.

"Uh, actually, we're here to find out the arrangements made for Feldmarschall Rommel. I'm his aide, Major Lang."

"Good for you." She rolled her eyes at him. "You'll find that those men over there can help you better than I." She pointed at several guards, then scowled at him. "I don't conduct military business."

_Must be the stupid uniform. No girl scowls at American Robert Hogan. _He nodded politely, began to turn away, but the girl suddenly seemed to spy Carter. She smiled very sweetly at him. "Please remember, smoking is verboten on the train except in smoking car 23, all right?"

"We'll remember, Frauline" Hogan turned and had to drag Carter away.

"Hey, did you see that? She smiled at me, not you. Me!" Carter was ecstatic, but Hogan was miffed. Was he losing his touch?

The Gestapo were very interested in helping them out, their suspicious gazes never faltering. One beefy Captain found Carter worthy of his attention. "And you are…"

"Sergeant Cartmeiyer, sir." He saluted nervously. "My orders are all right here. From Major Hochstetter."

His eyes narrowed. "Major Hochstetter? I see…Right this way, gentlemen. We'll see about those arrangements." The two Americans exhaled in relief. No more questions, so far.

ooooooooooooooooooooo

Lieutenant Alexander von Fritzchauer was proud, Prussian, and right now more than a little pained. He huffed down the long hallway, casting searing glares at any unfortunate soul in his path. He was not unlike the train just outside the building. A few more steps and the young aristocrat was at the door to Gestapo headquarters. Without knocking, he shoved it open forcefully and pushed inside, past two Gestapo agents and the weeping, pleading woman between them. The secretary glanced up, spotted him, and smiled flirtatiously, but he ignored her. There was no mood for such frivolity today. Besides, her face reminded him too much of a Jew. She was not Aryan enough for his tastes.

"Is Colonel Volger in?" he practically barked at her. "There is a matter of utmost importance that I wish to discuss with him. I would appreciate not being kept waiting." Her wide smile had long been replaced with a nervous trembling. She feared him. Well, good, he wanted it that way. "Well?"

"He's-he's in, Herr Lieutenant. I will tell him," she reached for her phone, but he waved her away and hurried into the office.

Colonel Volger, a plain non-Prussian, fat, lazy, and stupid, sat at his desk smoking an enormous cigar and flipping idly through his files. He looked up and gave the younger man an irritated stare. "What do you mean by this, Lieutenant? I am very busy right now. A very important visitor just arrived, unannounced and almost unexpected. I don't have time for your ceaseless rantings. I came in here to gather a few things, and then I'm leaving."

"Rantings? On the contrary, I'm here to request that you reign in Major Hochstetter, immediately. He came by again, today; he wants my men for yet another surprise inspection at Stalag 13. Sir, my men have better things to do than chase wild geese."

"You're ranting," Volger pointed out calmly.

He was going red all over. "There are arrests to be made, Jews to be flushed out, real problems to solve, and he insists a prison camp is more important. What does he intend to do, recapture our prisoners?"

Volger watched him, his own face darkening. "I believe you forget yourself, _Lieutenant. Major _Hochstetter outranks you and consequently, you will obey his orders. That is, as long as he doesn't contradict me." He chuckled a strange laughter. "Which reminds me, our visitor arrived with an extra man, one more than we expected. When approached by one of our agents, this Wehrmacht sergeant claimed he was obeying orders from your friend Hochstetter."

Fritzchauer straightened up, confused. "But what does the major have to do with Feldmarschall Rommel? He was not put in charge of security for this job."

"No, a curious complication. I put myself in charge of this operation, but it seems Hochstetter had his own ideas. That's where you come in, my boy. I'd do it myself, but the field marshal is waiting. Call Hochstetter and inquire as to his intentions." He leaned back in his chair. "I don't appreciate such breaches of protocol."

Fritzchauer felt a strange sense of joy. Hochstetter was in trouble; nothing could make him happier. "I will do so, sir." He saluted and moved swiftly to the door.

"Oh, and next time, knock. I don't appreciate your barging in all the time, either," but he was only talking to the Lieutenant's retreating back.

Once back in his office, Fritzchauer called the major instantly, inwardly sneering with delight and relish. As one of his former American prisoners put it, Hochstetter was in hot water with Volger. "Yes, Major Hochstetter? No, I'm not calling about Stalag 13, forget that will you?"

"How dare you talk to me that way!" Hochstetter's voice was too loud on the phone. Come to think of it, it was too loud everywhere.

"I dare, all right," he raised his own sophisticated, arrogant voice. "But you've dared to go too far. Colonel Volger is not pleased with your actions."

"What are you talking about!" He was shouting now.

"You know well what I speak of, your decision to take the security of Feldmarschall Rommel into your own hands. After you were ordered to remain out of it."

"I did no such thing!"

"Then what do you call the escort you ordered to accompany him to Berlin? Sergeant Cartmeiyer?" Fritzchauer could hear the other man sputtering indignantly. He loved making him squirm.

"I didn't order any escort! I've never heard of this Sergeant Cartmeiyer! Lieutenant, are you trying to be difficult? Because the Gestapo-"

"I am Gestapo, Major, and I have sway in the upper circles. Do not threaten me with empty promises. You're not getting away so easily. Why did you do it?"

"Just because your father is higher ranked than me gives your flippancy no excuse," Hochstetter ground out. "I didn't do it, idiot! I am only interested in Stalag 13! I never ordered an escort!" If anything, Hochstetter seemed to be telling the truth.

"Then who did? The papers are official." Silently, Fritzchauer was beginning to wonder. If Hochstetter was right, then something was amiss, dreadfully so.

"Maybe the field marshal brought him along from Africa, I don't know," Hochstetter raged. "All I do know, is I didn't do it!"

"He didn't, for your information. This Cartmeiyer was picked up somewhere along the road between Stalag 13 and this station. According to our intelligence, he was not present during the stay at Colonel Klink's camp." The phone went dead on the far end. He grew concerned with the lack of screaming. "Major Hochstetter, are you there?"

A slow, soft answer, so unlike the major's voice that it startled him. "Ja, I'm here. Between Stalag 13 and there, you say? Cartmeiyer, Cartmeiyer…Cartmeiyer! Ha! Keep an eye on your own troubles, Lieutenant. I'll clear this up." Just before he replaced the phone, Fritzchauer heard him mutter. "Hogan, you devil…"

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

Volger eyed the ambitious man before him. They stood only a few feet from the famous field marshal and his staff officer, in the busy turmoil of the train station lobby. "So he denies everything?"

"Jawohl, Herr Colonel." Fritzchauer struggled to keep respect on his face. If he was going to move up in the world, he needed this chance. "Actually sir, he seemed to be telling the truth."

"In that case, this is serious, more so than we thought," the fat colonel raised his eyebrows. "An unknown order, an unknown soldier…" he mused.

"Shall I have him detained?"

"No, no. We don't want to arouse the Field Marshal's suspicion. If we arrest a perfectly good soldier, he would not find it pleasing. And he already doesn't trust us Gestapo. I felt his disgust when we met. On the other hand, if we discover a plant, we may gain Rommel's good graces. Well, better graces, anyway."

Fritzchauer waited for his coming orders with absolute certainty.

"So, how does a little vacation sound to you? How would you like to shadow Cartmeiyer to Berlin?" Volger chuckled at the predatory expression on his subordinate's face.

"I would be honored, sir-"

"Then get your hat and get on that train before they do. Don't look conspicuous. Go." He was losing patience fast.

"But-packing-I've got to pack-"

"Buy some clothes when you get there. There's no time now."

Fritzchauer turned and melted into the crowd.

**Rommel's close calls: There were several instances when Rommel just barely got away. In Poland, he and another officer were running for cover when a shell exploded between them. The other officer died, but Rommel remained unscathed. Again in Poland, his tank was knocked out of action, just laying there in front of the approaching enemy. One other German tank drove up and held them off long enough for him to get himself out of the tangled mess. In Africa, he would fly above his troops in a light Storch aircraft, directing them from the air, occasionally landing to push them on. On one occasion, he started to land among what he thought were his men, only to discover they were British. His pilot steeply banked and climbed back up amidst a hail of bullets. Several other episodes only served to solidify this feeling of invincibility, and as he came to believe this more and more, he also became more reckless. **

**Done with the historical notes. Poor Lang, he's in for some unasked-for trouble. Just in case anybody thought I was going too easy on the Nazis, there were some nasty ones out there, more than not. And a few of them finally made it into my story. The bloodhounds are sniffing out their trail. Sorry I left a cliffhanger for so long. It took a while to work this chapter out. What do you think?**


	13. Back on the Home Front

Mid-morning, Stalag 13, Germany

"Perhaps you think you can carry out this absurd mission," Lang wanted to crawl into a hole when he saw the wrinkled bomber's jacket he was supposed to wear. It was such a vulgar uniform compared with his own. Of course, he thought, such a thing was the least of his troubles. By now he was a full-fledged traitor to the Third Reich, having aided the enemy in their nefarious scheme. And he was still doing it. _For the Field Marshal. Otherwise, there would be no way. _"Personally, I think you vill have trouble like nothing else." He reached out and reluctantly plucked the uniform from the enemy's grasp.

They were standing in their Colonel Hogan's room, a small but neat office with a bunk bed, desk, and several Hollywood posters. He was surrounded by three very serious Allied prisoners, a black American, an Englishman, and the smallest Frenchman Lang had ever seen. The American still held out the shoes, low-topped and brown leather. He hadn't worn shoes since the start of the war, and the treacherous part of him rather liked the idea. Shoes were so much more comfortable than boots.

Kinch watched him struggle with the jacket zipper, then drawled softly, dangerously, "Well, we don't have much of a choice. And you don't either, remember that."

"How can I forget, thanks to you?" Lang scowled afresh, but inside he wasn't about to give up. Somehow, someway, he was getting himself and the Field Marshal out of this mess. _The Field Marshal! _He felt his heart wrench with anger and a little guilt. This was all his fault. If only he could have seen through their farce sooner, if only he'd been faster in recognizing Hogan. It was his place to defend his field marshal, and he had failed him. He had failed Germany. Even now, who knew what might be happening to Rommel?

"Eh, chump, you all right?" the Englishman poked him curiously.

Lang jerked his drooping head upright and glared at him. "What do you think, Brit?" He snatched the shoes and sat abruptly on Hogan's bed to put them on. "You're not getting away with this," he warned the black one, the seeming leader in Hogan's absence. What was his name again? Kinch, that was what Hogan had called him. Kinch stared back, unwavering.

"I 'ope you ain't thinkin' of tryin' something," the British corporal smiled lopsidedly. "Remember 'o holds the cards, mate."

"Holds what cards?" Lang was confused.

"English expression," Kinch explained patiently. Patience- the word seemed to describe this man, a patient, enduring, solid man rarely roused. Yet he got the distinct feeling that if roused, this Kinch could be a dangerous enemy. "Means we're in control, not you."

"This is ridiculous," Lang finished tying the knots and looked up at their blank faces. "What do you intend to force me to do?"

"It's simple enough. All you need to do is mainly look like our Colonel from a distance, until he comes back. We'll work on the finer details when it becomes time for some interaction with your friends. We'll teach you some of his habits, what to say, when to say it, how to swagger and not march. There's only one main rule. You won't be allowed to leave this room alone, for everyone's benefit."

"But I'm not-"

"Including Rommel's," Kinch ignored his protest, kept talking as if he hadn't heard. "We can't have you talking with your countrymen."

"What about Klink, Kinch?" the Frenchman asked. "He almost daily talks with Mon Colonel alone." Lang's hopes began to rise, but Kinch was ready with an answer.

"Rest assured, Major, we'll be listening to your every conversation with our beloved Kommandant. If you say anything, we'll know. And all it takes is one quick radio call…"

Lang felt helpless rage boiling up deep within, only barely managed to keep his face calm and emotionless. He closed his eyes briefly, nodded, resigned. "I-I understand. I am put into such a position that I confess I do not know what to do. Your wishes will be complied with." _For now _was left hanging in the air, unspoken but very present.

"You won't regret it, mate," the Englishman patted his shoulder in sympathy.

_I already have. What am I doing? I am a loyal German officer. I am a traitor. No! _He hadn't asked for this; he wanted a normal career, not agonizing weeks of collaboration with the enemy.

"We'll give you a while to completely decide," Kinch herded the others toward the door. "I hope you make the right decision, for all of us." He softly closed it behind them, leaving Lang to drop heavily into the nearest and only chair.

What had he done to deserve this? Before the war had started, He'd only been a simple military man, nothing fancy or political about him, but a military trainee with no foreseeable future. Germany's shrunken military had left room for none but the most elite. His current commander, Rommel, had been one of those lucky few. Lang's beginning military career was cut off until Hitler came to power. He had been quickly accepted to the military college where Rommel taught several classes. Lang owed his job to the Third Reich and his knowledge to the field marshal. He'd recently, only a few weeks before in Africa, been selected by Rommel for the position of aide. Evidently the Swabian thought he showed potential in such duties. Out of gratefulness, he kept himself far away from the political arguments and battles.

His position with the mostly respectable Wehrmacht had kept him blind to the atrocities of the S.S. and Gestapo, away from the rumors of the death camps. On campaigns, he had little time to think about it, so he didn't. He considered his oath of allegiance the only importance to a soldier-loyalty, obedience, duty. To him there was no other way.

And now this, betrayal, forced and yet unforced. On the other side was the only man he really respected, a man that represented his truly loved country, the old Germany, the one without the dark rumors of death and destruction, but the hard facts of dignity and honesty, chivalry even.

Still, that Germany was not the recipient of his loyalty. His sworn oath was to the Third Reich, and an oath could not be easily or lightly broken. His Germany was this Germany, like it or not. He hated it, the uncertainty. Was there no way out? What was stronger, his loyalty to his fuhrer and government, or his loyalty to his field marshal and his own sense of right? Who had given him more, taught him the most? Which way was right?

"Maybe there is no right way," he groaned aloud, buried his face in his hands. He didn't hear the door quietly swing open, or see Kinch come back in. But Kinch saw him, and for the shortest moment, he felt pity for this rattled Nazi.

"Maybe there isn't a right way for you in this, but we know what we're doing is right, and at the moment, you're along for the ride," Kinch stated. "You can make it easier on everyone if you come cheerfully."

Lang, startled, lifted his head and met the man's gaze. Strangely, it never occurred to him not to be frank. "I don't think you understand, American," but there was no animosity in his words, only a resigned sense of defeat. "In fact, I don't think there's anyway you can. Your world isn't falling apart like mine."

"I've made different choices," Kinch was expressing subtle disapproval.

"So you have, but your circumstances have been different as well. Where would you Americans be, I wonder, if our fuhrer had been born an American? If the Great War had been fought on your soil? If you had been forced to deal with the Treaty of Versailles?"

"Those things didn't help, sure, but circumstances don't completely shape us. We're responsible for our own choices. We choose to let circumstances affect our actions. Your people, Germany, chose to follow Hitler. The results are now showing themselves. You can't shirk your responsibility."

"Maybe not, but I can't cheerfully turn traitor. Treason is treason. Think about it from my point of view. I have seen how much you respect and admire your Colonel Hogan. Tell me how you would feel if you had to choose between actively helping with his capture by the Gestapo, knowing you can do nothing for him, or standing by and watching him be murdered." The thought made him shudder.

"We aren't Nazis, and we certainly aren't the Gestapo. He'll be treated as best as possible," Kinch assured him.

Lang persisted. "But he will still be a prisoner. He will still be under pressure to betray his country. And it is not impossible that they will kill him while trying to get him out."

"He's a good man working for a demon. How long do you think Hitler is going to let him live?"

Lang paused. It was a possibility he had considered before. The Third Reich didn't seem the type of place to long tolerate Rommel's kind. The Field Marshal didn't seem to worry about it, claimed it could never happen, but his staff was always nervous. Lang sighed. "You could be right. So, what do I do?" He stood and smoothed the flight jacket carefully. The wrinkle on his left sleeve refused to straighten out, so he gave up and focused on the other man.

"Nothing much," Kinch had strict orders from Hogan not to tell him anything about their underground work, more than he already knew, of course. He did know they had an operation, just not to what extent. "We mostly sit around or play sports all day. What every prison camp does."

"I believe this is no normal prison camp. Your Colonel Klink, is his stupidity and bumbling all an act?" Lang crossed over to the window and watched a small group of prisoners playing soccer.

"No, he's on your side, thankfully."

"Oh." _No wonder we're losing the war. _"And the guards, they are all loyal too?

"Mostly. Some are more loyal to their chocolate bars, but you still can't talk to any of them alone. Sergeant Schultz makes the inspections around here. Roll call is at 4:00 a.m., 12:00 p.m., and 10:00 p.m. every day. Then there are the surprise roll calls."

4:00 wasn't too bad. During the two weeks in Africa as Rommel's aide, he'd been up by 3:30. He could cope with this.

"We have three meals a day." _Can't be worse than Africa, right?_ "The Frenchman is named Lebeau, the Englishman is Newkirk, and the other American you saw coming in is Olsen." Kinch joined him at the window and pointed out some others.

_So many new names, and I've got to learn them, or we're all dead men._

There was a sudden knock on the door, and Lebeau poked his head in. "Kinch, we've got trouble! Big trouble! Major Hochstetter just pulled in, and he's hopping mad!"

"Oh, brother!" Kinch widened his eyes considerably. "That's just what we need." From the look on the American's face, Lang deduced that their plan had a loose thread. _Maybe we are already dead men._


	14. Between a Rock and a Hard Place

_Bold, witty, and cheerfully insolent, _Lang told himself over and over, silently repeating Kinch's description of Colonel Hogan. The night they ate dinner in Klink's office, Lang's drugged state had not allowed him to take many useful notes. And at that point, why would he have wanted to?

Now he stood partially paralyzed at the entrance to Hogan's small office. _Always making fun of us, cracking jokes. How am I supposed to crack jokes? I told a joke two years ago, and the way it went over, I've never done it again. This isn't going to work. _His feet refused to carry him through the office door. He stiffened as Kinch gave him a firm nudge.

"Whatever you do, don't panic," the American hissed quietly, his patience slipping away to reveal nervousness while he waited.

"A little late for that, I might tell you," Lang replied. "A Gestapo officer? I hate Gestapo…"

"Same here, but hating him isn't gonna make him disappear. Now lose some of that German military posture," Kinch pushed the major's shoulders forward to a less rigid position and began propelling him to the barracks door. "Look relaxed. Why can't you Germans just look relaxed?"

"I am trying, it just does not feel natural," Lang protested. _Bold, witty, and cheerfully insolent, How does one be cheerfully insolent? Hogan isn't insolent; he's insane. I wonder what he's doing?_

"Six feet under isn't gonna feel too natural either," Kinch broke into his thoughts with a sobering statement. He pulled the wild eyed German to a stop before stepping out and reached up to tilt Hogan's cap at an angle. _That's another thing, _Lang ruefully observed._ Caps are supposed to be straight. _"Don't say too much too fast," Kinch warned him seriously. "We're watching, so no funny business. Don't act nervous or afraid. The Colonel's never afraid-always confident. Oh, and don't antagonize Hochstetter too badly. He's not as easy-going as Klink. Don't say anything to prolong his visit."

_Why do you think I would want him to stay?_

"Got it all?"

_No. _"Yes."

Kinch glanced outside; Schultz was lumbering across the prison yard, cutting right through the intense soccer game. He saw Lebeau angle the ball off Schultz's big stomach and heard the Frenchman's team roar approval as the ball went between the posts. The guard paused to fuss at the laughing group.

They both waited in uncomfortable silence, neither looking at the other's eyes. Lang forced several deep breaths, which came much easier in the baggy bomber jacket. Kinch stared down at his shoes. The moment of reckoning was almost upon them, and it had come suddenly and without warning.

It came in the form of the normally jolly Schultz, who appeared to be very relieved to see the two men. His eyes went instantly to "Colonel Hogan" and he brightened. "Ah, Colonel Hogan, there you are! Major Hochstetter is here in camp, and he wants to talk to you right away! He's very hot under the collar," Schultz wiped sweat from his forehead, a strange thing in such pleasant weather.

Lang cut off any second thoughts. _There is no other way. Not yet. _"I'm coming Sergeant- I mean- Schultz." He tried to imitate Hogan's carefree swagger as he walked outside, but he paused at the threshold of the door and turned around, staring hard at Kinch. "They had better not kill him."

Curiously, Schultz glanced at the quiet prisoner. "What did he mean by that? No wait, maybe I shouldn't… I don't want to know, I know nothing…" He fled after Lang as fast as he could waddle. Kinch crossed his fingers, sighed, and moved back to Hogan's office.

"Time to make some coffee," he informed the empty bed. _ I hope you're having more fun than we are, Colonel, wherever you are. _

ooooooooooooooooo

Try not to act nervous was an impossible request; Lang realized it the minute he stepped into the outer room of Klink's office. When his own life, Rommel's life, and the lives of all the men in this camp depended solely on his acting skills, he felt entitled to a little nervousness. To tell the truth, he felt a hint of faintness as he walked by the row of tall filing cabinets. The beautiful secretary looked up and dazzled him with a radiant smile. However, her smile died away and she hurried around her desk to take his arm.

"Are you all right, Colonel? You look pale." _A bit overly-friendly with the prisoners, isn't she?_ "Colonel Hogan?"

"Oh, ja-just, I mean, **just** a small headache," he smiled back, and inwardly kicked himself. _English, speak English, dummkopf._ "Um, yes, yeah, how are you?" She chuckled at his question and moved gracefully back to her chair without answering.

"Colonel Klink and Major Hochstetter are inside waiting. Go on in."

"Thanks." It was hard to sound so informal, but he was trying, and trying had to count for something, right? He cautiously pushed the door open and leaned in to find the Kommandant and a Gestapo major engaged in a heated argument. Surprised, Lang was content to watch as long as possible.

"I assure you, Major Hochstetter, what a ridiculous idea this is," Klink sputtered indignantly.

"It's **my** idea," Hochstetter roared. "What do you mean, 'ridiculous'?"

"Oh, did I say ridiculous?" Klink went pale, smiled weakly. "I meant fantastic. It's a brilliant plan, but how could such a thing be possible? This is a prison camp. There has never been a successful escape from Stalag 13-"

"Until now, Klink! Something fishy is going on here, and I intend to find out what!" Hochstetter slammed his fist on the table and Klink jumped. "This whole camp stinks of foul play!"

The colonel spotted Lang hovering in the doorway. "Ah, Colonel Hogan."

_Witty, think of something witty, now! _"Um, am I interrupting? I could always come back later." He had to admit, the idea had merit. _Much later._ He started to turn around.

"Ho-o-o-gan!" Klink marched past him and slammed the door shut. "You're staying right here."

"Klink is right," Hochstetter growled, slapping a glove into his hand. If he was trying to look intimidating, he was succeeding. "We have much to discuss, Colonel. The question is, are we willing to talk here, or must we go over to my office for a friendly chat?"

We can talk here, Major, no need to waste gas," Lang now knew why Schultz had been sweating. Though it seemed strange, he wished for the solid presence of Sergeant Kinchloe. Somehow, his enemies were friendlier then his allies.

"Hogan, I'm in no mood for your insolence today," Hochstetter began circling him like a hungry shark. "You've always managed to escape me, or even make me look like a fool, but not this time. This time, I have a feeling you're going to be short a man, and an explanation," he chuckled triumphantly.

"I am?" Lang's mind froze up, and he couldn't think of a single witty thing to say. His grasp of the English language almost left him completely. He felt himself sinking into an office chair as Hochstetter hovered above him, staring him down. _This is why I hate Gestapo. They make you feel like a cornered animal._ Klink's surprised and faintly puzzled expression escaped the attentions of the two opponents. _I'm supposed to be on his side. Do I even want to be on his side?_

"I'm pretty sure you are, Hogan," Hochstetter claimed. "Just a few minutes ago, at my headquarters, I took the liberty of looking through your camp records. I came across the name of one Sergeant Andrew Carter, precisely as I suspected," he sauntered over to Klink's desk and sat down, exuding confidence. His hands folded themselves on top of the shiny dark wood, and he leaned forward to eye his staunchest foe. Rather, what he thought was his staunchest foe. "You **do** have a Sergeant Carter here, don't you?"

"I-I think so." Inside, Lang was panicking. If Hochstetter knew about the missing prisoner, did he know the truth about Hogan too? Was he only playing with them, while Hogan and Carter lay dead in some ditch, their plot exposed? Then a worse thought struck him. Could Hogan have gone out fighting, and could he have taken Rommel with him? _No, please no._

"What's the matter with you, Hogan?" Klink paced over from the window. "Of course we have a Sergeant Carter here…" he trailed off, pondering, and came to a shocking conclusion. "Are you saying, Major Hochstetter, that Carter is the unidentified soldier traveling with the Feldmarschall?" He scratched his bald head in bewilderment.

"That Klink, is the most thinking I have ever seen you do," Hochstetter snarled.

"But that's impossible!"

"Most of the time it is, Klink."

"No, no, not that. The prisoner Carter is here at Stalag 13. I had him put in the cooler for disobeying orders," Klink protested, still glancing desperately at "Hogan." Lang caught the idea that he was to somehow help, but he didn't know what to do any more than Klink.

He'd give it a shot though. "As a matter of fact, I talked to him this morning, Kommandant. He had a minor complaint about the room service…" _I hope that was right. Until I can be assured of the field marshal's safety, I've got to play along. _

"The cooler does not have room service!" Klink threw up his hands, noticed Hochstetter pulling on his gloves to leave. "May I get you anything, Major?"

"No! I'm going to investigate this myself. I'm going to see this Carter in his cell, and if I don't…You won't be dying of extreme Russian cold, Klink, you'll be dying by the hard bullets of a firing squad!" Hochstetter practically screamed his threat as he stormed out of the room.

"But I'm certain you'll find everything as it should be." Klink gathered up his hat and coat and scurried after him. The whole situation was out of Lang's hands, if it was ever in them to begin with. The whole plan would soon be discovered. Hochstetter would see the empty cell. Carter would be arrested, maybe Hogan too. The Americans might put up a fight. One thing was certain; somebody was going to get hurt.

oooooooooooooooooo

Kinch slammed the coffee maker into its drawer and glanced at Lebeau and Newkirk, who had gathered around the coffee pot with him the minute Lang disappeared into Klink's headquarters. Lebeau was still breathing hard from the fiercely competitive game, and it took him a second to get his words out.

"He is going to find out that Carter is missing! What are we going to do?" Lebeau asked. "I wish Colonel Hogan were here."

"So do I, but he's not, and Hochstetter's about to have us all on meat hooks," Kinch paced out into the main room. "He's onto us. Newkirk, I need you to get down in the tunnel and come up in the cooler. You're now Andrew Carter."

"Blimey, that's gonna be a sticky wicket! What about Klink?"

"We'll distract him. Get going." Newkirk nodded and clambered down the tunnel in the bunk bed while Kinch hurried outside to find Schultz. The amiable guard stood on the sidelines of the still-going game, cheering the teams on. "Schultz! Schultz! Psst, hey Schultz, got important news. A prisoner just escaped!"

"Jolly joker," he rumbled, intensifying his attention on the game.

"No, really! You need to report him, Schultz." Kinch watched Klink's headquarters. _Anytime now…There! _Hochstetter emerged from the building, shouting his trademark "bah" at the unfortunate Klink. The Kommandant followed him down the short steps, and Lang brought up the rear, radiating confusion and desperation. They all stopped for a minute to argue. "If he gets away while you were on duty, it'll be the Russian front for you."

"Another one?" Schultz gave up trying to ignore his pleas. "First Carter escapes and you don't want me to report him, then another one escapes and you do want me to report him."

"Carter's long gone for now, but if you report this one, you can still get him back before he goes far." Kinch saw the small group begin to walk on. He critically observed Lang. _No, less rigid. Bounce a little, don't march. You look like a German. Well, he is a German. _

You're right." Beside him, Schultz waved his arms and took off to flag the Kommandant down. "Herr Kommandant! Herr Kommandant! Please wait, Herr Kommandant." Klink waited, albeit impatiently, as Schultz arrived, chuffing like a steam engine.

"What is it now, Schultz?" he cried.

The guard saluted. "I beg to report, but a prisoner is missing, Herr Kommandant."

Klink looked horrified. "What? Now? Release the dogs! Get the search parties out! Bring up my motorcar!" The quiet camp exploded into action, men and dogs tearing off in every direction in their haste to find the missing man. If they hadn't been in such dire straits, Kinch would have laughed. As it was, he was pleased to see Klink taking the bait. With Klink out of the way, the Heroes had a much better chance of success. "Major, if you will excuse me, I must recapture my wayward prisoner. Perhaps we can do this another time?" Klink smiled hopefully.

"Your prisoners seem to be fleeing this camp like rats from a sinking ship," Hochstetter observed. "Perhaps it would be wise for you to follow their example, Klink. Go after your prisoner; I am going to have a look at that empty cell!" He spun on his heel and strode away.

"Schultz! Escort the major to Sergeant Carter's cell," Klink ordered. "I have a prisoner to catch."

"Sergeant Carter's cell?" It was Schultz's turn to be horrified. As far as he knew, but didn't want to, Carter had been missing for some time already. "But-but-but…" He stopped arguing, the glare from Klink becoming too much. "Yes, Herr Kommandant," he sighed and trudged after Hochstetter; he couldn't help thinking, _This is going to be worth my life, and Kommandant Klink's, too. _

Kinch sent Lang a silent message with his eyes, to follow Schultz and the Gestapo major. He nodded reassuringly at the concerned German, and Lang obeyed without comment. But Kinch had seen the desperate gleam in the major's eye. He hoped Lang wasn't going to try anything. _I bet he thinks we're crazy._

oooooooooooooo

_They are crazy. They are just letting this Hochstetter discover the truth. Once he sees that cell, we are doomed. _Lang padded down the long hallway, his tortured gaze burning into Hochstetter's back. _I can't let him see an empty cell. Then he will attempt to arrest Carter, and Hogan will still be in a position to kidnap Feldmarschall Rommel, or kill him. Or Hogan will try to save Carter and end up killing everyone. Or Carter will talk under pressure and this whole camp will be caught, and then Hogan will retaliate. There are too many problems with this. Hochstetter cannot just act on part of the story. He has got to know the whole situation. _A brief thought ran through his head, _Perhaps Sergeant Kinch can help-no, he was taken by surprise just as much as I was. _Rommel's aide recalled one of the Field Marshal's favorite sayings for times like these; mortal danger is an effective antidote for fixed ideas.

_Yes, I determined to go along with the prisoners' plans, but the danger is becoming too great. It was crucial that I not speak, or Rommel might be killed. But now, if I don't speak, he is in even greater danger. Please try to understand, Sergeant Kinchloe, but your loyalty to your Colonel Hogan does not transcend my loyalty to my Field Marshal. Not even my own life matters right now. I must do what I believe is right._ This could be his only chance to save his superior's life. Now was as good a time as any for it. In the small hallway of the cooler it seemed unlikely that there were any microphones, and he was temporarily alone with two fellow Germans.

"Major Hochstetter?"

"What now, Hogan?"

**Sorry for the long time, no update again. In the course of all the episodes I've seen, I've never really seen Hochstetter meet any of the lesser Hogan's Heroes, thus making him not familiar with their faces and personalities. Anyway, that's what the gang is hoping for. Tell me what you think.**

**Oh, and many thanks to Tirathon for looking this chapter over and showing me the mistakes in it. **


	15. Why Do Things the Easy Way?

March 15, 1943, Noon, Hammelburg Station, Germany

Hogan watched Daniel pile the suitcases in storage on the train. He could feel Carter shaking with excitement beside him. Or was it nervousness? With Carter, one could never quite tell. "Cool it down," he hissed under his breath.

"Right sir. Cool it, got it, sir. Cool, I'm definitely cool sir," he assured, but he was still shaking a little. The second suitcase suddenly fell to the floor. Hogan sighed, reached down, and helped Daniel with his loading. The German seemed grateful for the help.

"Danke, Herr Major," Daniel exclaimed when the luggage was safely tucked away. "With your permission, I will return to the car?" The train blew a loud warning whistle, and he was eager to get off.

"Yes, Sergeant, that will be fine. You know the destination, Hotel Berlin; we'll meet you there then," Hogan returned the soldier's salute. "Safe trip, I hope."

"Why, thank you, Herr Major," Surprised, Daniel saluted and hurried down the train steps, plainly ill at ease aboard the huge locomotive, his shoulders hunched and head pulled in like a turtle's. He melted into the teaming crowds of Germans, politely pushing and shoving his way off the station's platform. The crowds were getting more rushed as the train prepared to leave. Salutations and farewells sounded all across the swarm as people climbed on and off the cars. Hogan stared after Daniel's retreating back. _There's one more fella we don't have to worry about, if my plan works. _He turned his head and gave Carter a meaningful look.

"Post yourself just inside the back door once we get going, and try to look professional about it too," he ordered. Hogan then moved across the compartment to the other end where Rommel and the German officials stood. Hogan positioned himself behind the field marshal and listened with as unassuming an air as possible. He put an arrogant, superior smirk on his face and hoped he looked enough like a German.

"Herr Feldmarschall, the arrangements for your security are well taken care of," Colonel Volger, the Gestapo man in charge of security, was explaining. "This train makes several short stops on its way to Berlin, but I will see to it that you are not disturbed. You will arrive in Berlin late this afternoon, where the greeting party there will accompany you to your quarters. Eh, I trust your stay in this district was profitable?" he asked, obviously not out of true concern, but to make sure there was no unfavorable impression formed of the area under his control.

"Very profitable," Rommel told him with an off-handed wave. His eyes were not focused on the heavy little man before him, but were staring off at something only he could see. He abruptly turned, spotted his aide, and inquired, "Is the baggage all up?"

"Jawohl, Herr Feldmarschall," Hogan replied, and silently congratulated himself on sounding so like a rigid German. "It is." His words were punctuated by another warning shriek of the train's whistle. Outside, the crowds were beginning to move back from the locomotive, giving it a respectful distance and waving their hats and handkerchiefs.

"Good. Colonel Volger, I believe we will then take leave of your company. I have some important paperwork waiting for me, and I'm sure you are a very busy man." Rommel glanced over at his document-stuffed briefcase that was lying on the car's fine oak table.

To his credit, Volger took the hint, saluted, and clicked his heels together. "Of course, Herr Feldmarschall. And may I wish you a safe and interesting trip to Berlin. Heil Hitler." Rommel didn't reply with the customary words, seemingly distracted, and Volger wasn't about to challenge him on the matter. The field marshal turned and found himself one of the table chairs as the small party of Gestapo officials filed out onto the station platform.

Hogan noticed the minute Rommel became immersed in his paperwork. He cautiously cleared his throat there was no visible response. Very good. With all the hustle and bustle of the departing train, it would be impossible to overhear their conversation, and the Colonel needed to let Carter in on the ideaHogan joined Carter at the rear of the car and leaned against the door frame to talk, but Carter beat him to it.

"Well, sir, we're finally off to Berlin. Kinda hard to believe, isn't it? I mean, after all that excitement and planning…I was beginning to think we'd never make this far. If you ask me-"

"Carter," Hogan sighed. "Button up. We're not going to Berlin. We never were going to Berlin."

"Not going to Berlin, sir?" Carter was surprised and spoke loudly. He cringed under Hogan's best death glare. "Sorry sir. What's the plan?"

"Berlin with all its checkpoints isn't going to be the easiest place to capture a field marshal. Granted, we don't usually do things the easy way, but outside Berlin will be better suited to our mission. I've decided on Erfurt. It's a little less than halfway to Berlin. " Hogan felt the train shudder under his feet, heard the final long and piercing cry of the whistle, the loud blast of steam as it shot up on both sides of the powerful engine and covered the train in a fine mist of hot water. The floor jerked underneath, and they adjusted their balance as the massive beast began to move under them. Rommel barely looked up before going back to his writing.

"How are we gonna do that?" Carter asked, already somewhat skeptical.

"Simple. We're gonna jump off a moving train," Hogan stated without batting an eye. Carter's own eyes grew to the size of dinner plates, and Hogan clapped his hand over the sergeant's mouth before Carter could gasp; he only managed a muffled grunt.

Pulling Hogan's hand away from his face, he protested, "But Colonel, isn't that a bit dangerous and all, I mean, the whole jumping idea seems a little, well, um…" He searched for the right word.

"Crazy?" Hogan helped him out. "Not as crazy as it sounds. Because trains are really heavy, they start slowing down long before they reach their stop, right?" He didn't wait for agreement; who knew if any was forthcoming, the way Carter was staring at him. "The whole plan hinges on no one seeing us get off, but if we can find a good spot for cover, it might work."

"But, but, but-"

"We can avoid a lot of questions and checkpoints this way…" Hogan mused, ignoring Carter's best imitation of a motorboat.

"But Colonel!"

"What? You've jumped off roofs before. Just tuck your head in and you'll be fine. Roll. Don't stiffen up. If a bunch of soft Hollywood stuntmen can do it, why can't we?" he argued. Through the window, he could see the countryside beginning to fly by in a green blur of fields, trees, and hedgerows.

"I've never jumped off a moving train, sir; I don't really know if I can." Carter was starting to sweat at the thought. "What if we're seen?"

"We'll make sure we won't be. And Carter, you're part Indian. Haven't you ever seen a western? This train stuff comes naturally to you." Hogan grinned in spite of the situation; Carter's expression was priceless. "We'll wait till we're closer to Berlin, to take the heat off this area. Just be ready for the signal, Carter."

"But sir, I still think we, ought… to…reconsider…" The young chemist found himself talking to Hogan's back as the colonel moved away to one of the chairs. Carter sighed and rocked back against the doorframe. Hogan grinned slightly as he settled onto the plush, red velvet couch, and wondered how the Spartan Rommel was enjoying his own seat. _This is when it pays to be an officer. Sorry, Carter. _

He reclined against his seat and gazed out the window, watching the small, quaint buildings of Hammelburg begin to whip by with increasing speed. Slowly, the town's terrain morphed into an endless stream of fields and hedgerows beginning to blossom with the first green of spring. Hogan watched, fascinated, as he compared the beauty of Germany to the ugliness of the Third Reich. Here and there still-smoldering remains of an Allied bombing raid lay splattered across the countryside, a shelled barn, a cow's blackened carcass, scorched and pitted earth.

And there, as they whipped by, he saw a group of forced laborers repairing telegraph wires beside the tracks. Hogan saw their S.S. guards lounging on the ground while the much-too-thin prisoners struggled to raise the heavy post. His mind began to boil with indignant anger, and he lifted his head to glance at Rommel, to see the German's expression. However, Rommel wasn't looking up, his face a few inches away from some document on the table.

Hogan wanted to scream at him. _Don't you see it? Look up, see what your government is doing to your country! And you're okay with this? _He couldn't though, and they were long past the scene by now. Hogan sighed and rubbed his head, glancing back at Carter. The young scientist had become very serious, his normally playful face hardened by what they had seen. _This is why we take these risks, for those people out there, and for our own people, so they don't have to experience that. And if we don't take the risk, we take the experience. Maybe you're too young to have to learn this, Carter; but then maybe one can't be young enough._ Hogan felt old, somehow responsible for the Carters of his world. It was his place to teach them, and he was going to see to it that this mission succeeded.

First, they had to get to Erfurt, and there were many towns in between. Almost lazily they passed, seeming to mock Hogan's anxious, hurried feelings; Bad Kissingen…Bad Neustadt an der Saale…Meiningen…Zella-Mehlis… the big and the little, the country between. And every moment in time brought them closer to danger.

oooooooooooooooooooo

Some time later, Hogan was struggling not to fall asleep as the train rocked back and forth. Once one was used to the noise, it was almost peaceful here. He blinked furiously, raised his head, and looked around. He was startled to find Rommel staring at him, apparently deep in thought, his gloved hands absently toying with his pen.

"Do you need anything, sir?" he asked, feeling a small twinge of panic. Was there something wrong with his appearance? "Sir" he asked, louder this time.

Rommel's eyes came into focus and he offered a faint smile. "No, Major. I apologize. It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable. I was merely thinking." He looked away then, down at his briefcase. "You joined us in Africa, what, three weeks before we left?"

"I believe so," Hogan agreed. "It wasn't long." _This conversation had better not get too detailed._

"A pity that you were never able to see us in action, real action, the old glory days. Our side of the army anyways; the Italians were another matter entirely," he chuckled. "They never ceased to amaze me. Here," he indicated several envelopes, "are letters from Mussolini and Bastico and half a dozen others, all claiming their smashing Italian victories kept the whole African front from collapsing."

"I understand they were the first to run, sir."

"Certainly, they were no good at fighting," Rommel tucked the letters away. "But then, is that such a bad thing? They were very good at building roads and other useful skills. Skills that repair a world instead of tearing it apart." A dark expression settled in his eyes.

Hogan was more than a little puzzled. Most German generals were filled to the brim with confidence in their glorified Third Reich, boasting proudly of their military conquests and superiority; but Rommel acted almost bitter about the whole war. Maybe it had to do with the imminent destruction of his beloved army, or his varied desert illnesses. Whatever the reason, he was clearly depressed with the current situation. Hogan noticed his quarry had sunken back into deep reverie, so he didn't acknowledge the last statement. The American wouldn't have known what to say. _I'm here to kidnap him, not discuss the war with him. _He checked his watch, heard an announcement for the next stop, Arnstadt. Erfurt was next then, their stop. He quietly shifted in his chair as they clacked through the town.

Rommel avoided his gaze and went back to his papers.

oooooooooooooooooooo

Lieutenant Alexander von Fritzchauer wandered through the train, slowly but surely making his way towards the field marshal's private car, thanking his fat old superior for being allowed to gather his hat at least. He would have felt terribly exposed without its low brim pulled down over his eyes. Its shadow across his face made the perfect finishing touch to his entire image. He enjoyed the satisfaction of watching others scramble from his path, regarding him with an animal-like fear. The Gestapo had no friends, and he liked it that way. Friends only held one back, and with no friends, he had access to unlimited power over every German's life.

Right now, he decided to unleash that power on two unfortunate S.S. guards in the dining car. They were both on break and downing large glasses of schnapps when he found them. Break? He didn't recall allowing for break time on this trip. The young lieutenant was incensed as he ordered them out. "Why aren't you at you posts?" he snarled.

"There seemed to be no problem, Herr Lieutenant. We did leave one man to guard the front entrance. Their sergeant is guarding the rear," the shorter soldier replied nervously.

"Idiots. Their sergeant is the one you were to guard. I'll have your heads for this infraction. After this pleasant trip is over, you're going sight-seeing. Russia is lovely this time of year. For now, get back to your posts," he ordered, barely refraining from striking the cowering duo. "I'll come with you to see that you aren't sidetracked. Move!" He shoved them roughly from the dining car, past the wary occupants, who carefully averted their blank, unfeeling gazes.

ooooooooooooooooooo

When the private car's speaker announced the next approaching town of Erfurt, Hogan stood up. He felt a strong rush of adrenaline when he joined Carter at the back door. The countryside was still whipping by at a fast rate, but he could feel the train beginning to apply its brakes. The car swayed back and forth more than normal as it roared over the tracks.

"Are the guards still out there?" He peered through the small window, studied the small platform at the back of the car. They would fit easily enough.

"No, sir, they liked my suggestion about the schnapps," Carter informed him, swelling with pride in his accomplishment. "Both of them are gone. I told them I'd guard the back, and I guess they believed me."

"Why wouldn't they?" Hogan glanced outside. The ground was passing slower now. It was time to act, before they lost their nerve. He turned and walked back to the table, just behind the unsuspecting Rommel. His muscles were tensing with anticipation; he reached down to the holster of his Luger, softly pulled it free. _Brother, this is it. This is our chance, to make it or blow it. No one needs to tell me how important this is. Like all our missions, this is now a matter of life or death, and I hope it's life. _He started to raise it, started to speak, when there came a hard knocking at the rear door. Carter spun around at the same time that Rommel looked up. Hogan desperately whipped the pistol around behind his back before the German could see it.

Carter glanced at Hogan, who nodded. The plan was off; they had no choice but to open the door. _Why can't we ever do things the easy way?_ He inwardly groaned. For standing on the other side were two very windblown, cowed S.S. guards, and behind them stood a definitely uncowed Gestapo plainclothesman. Oh, he'd done his best to look friendly and open, his hat clutched in his hands, a slimy smile plastered to his face, but there was no mistaking him for what he really was. _So we've got to do it the hard way, but this is ridiculous. _

**Thanks to Tirathon, my fine beta-reader who made the excellent suggestion to use Google Earth. The towns they passed through between Hammelburg and Berlin really exist. Rommel looking closely at his papers is a fact. I believe he was far-sighted in one eye and near-sighted in the other. Movies taken of him show him studying his maps at a very close, intense distance.**

**The language in this chapter is presumably all German. I've purposefully left this matter a little vague because the TV show itself did. I can't imagine that Klink and Hochstetter spoke to each other in English when alone, unless they were laying a trap for Hogan. So when Germans speak, it's probably German. Americans in camp, probably English, or French. Hogan and Carter are needing to speak German at the moment. **

**I also want to publicly thank Qualerei, and Wing Pikepaw, for being fellow Rommel fans and encouraging me to keep writing. We even started a Rommel and WW2 forum. We're nuts, though the others would probably prefer to speak for themselves. And thanks to all you fine folk who have reviewed in the past. **

**So, SO sorry for the REALLY long gap between updates. I was about to be able to claim that I updated every Saturday, but that flew out the window these past few months. Real life can take you by surprise, hospitals and funerals and family gatherings, on and on and on. When it rains, it pours; don't ever take things for granted. A hideous case of writer's block didn't help. I'm hoping the next update won't take nearly so long. **


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